


Psalm

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: @WhitehallSeries, F/M, Gen, Lord M - Freeform, Melbourne, Raziel - Freeform, Vicbourne, Victoria - Freeform, William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Queen Victoria - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:09:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 95,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: Follows 'Strange Birds'.





	1. Chapter 1

[PSALM](https://youtu.be/f5vrMzP2NGg) - [Click for link](https://youtu.be/f5vrMzP2NGg)

Title borrowed from a song by The Reign of Kindo, and video by the very talented essero which conveys some of Lord Melbourne's thoughts and feelings during this phase.  I do not own rights to video, lyrics, music or the images essero used, nor do I intend any copyright infringement by linking to same. Characters depicted herein are open source historical persons not linked to any past or present fictionalized depiction.

* * *

 

Change was in the air.

Although the calendar only said early September, dawn saw a thick coating of dew and gauzy webs sparkled with droplets of moisture seemingly everywhere one looked at sunrise. A few trees farthest from the river already revealed the first tinting of gold crowns high in their boughs. Daily, groups of itinerant farm laborers veered off their trek down the market road to refresh themselves along the banks of the River Lea en route to whatever crop was offering the chance of cash wages.

The Royal family and, by definition, the Court had spent the better part of August at Brocket Hall. Their duty roster was sparsely populated for that holiday period. As London was empty of nobility, so the Queen had given leave to most of the honor appointments and those holding sinecure. A few stalwarts, those whose longevity in service to the Queen or actual familial ties had woven them into the fabric of family life, remained, housed either at Brocket Hall or their nearby family estates.

The Viscount Melbourne had taken his wife, by her own insistence, to Brocket Hall as soon as she was declared well enough to travel. Victoria’s health had suffered no long-lasting effects of her midsummer miscarriage. The physicians opined that it was far too early to leave any lasting disability and her natural stamina and good health carried her through. When her loathing of the Brighton Pavilion became too onerous to bear, various schemes were put forth for her convalescence, from a journey northward to the wilds of Scotland – dismissed by the Queen as a gloomy, uncivilized place – to travel by yacht to Cannes in the south of France. The charming seaside village had been made popular amongst English aristocrats by Lord Brougham. Victoria’s interest was piqued but she persuaded her husband she would rather venture there during the long dismal months of winter.

Melbourne was not immune to his wife’s enthusiasm for his unentailed family home, nor was he averse to spending the final month of the off-season within an hour’s brisk ride of London, where he could visit his club and remain in touch with old friends and political cronies. _Former_ political cronies, he reminded himself, as they reminded him by the new diffidence he found so unsettling.

All those formally appointed companions to the Queen and her Consort – for Melbourne, declining to make any appointments of his own, had allowed those gentlemen employed on sufferance by his predecessor Prince Albert to retain their sinecures – were given leave to return to their homes, so that few nobly born attendants accompanied them. Only Lady Portman, whose own estate abutted Melbourne’s, allowing her to travel the short distance daily, and Fanny Jocelyn remained in service.

Victoria’s energy level was high and if her spirts were not precisely exuberant, she was far less disciplined in manner and daily routine than when surroundings reminded her of her exalted position. At Brocket Hall, away from prying eyes eager to judge, and the silent admonishments of her straight-laced governess to quell excess informality, Melbourne encouraged Victoria to shed much of her natural reticence and the constraints of her prudish upbringing.

She found a natural and most suitable companion in Fanny, Lady Jocelyn, Melbourne’s own niece. Lady Frances had been raised in a secular, even libertine household and after she married into a sternly religious family much of her own joie de vivre had to be suppressed. Because she desperately loved her husband she tried valiantly to comply but away from constant disapproving oversight Fanny came back to life. The two young women rode out often, both astride in boy’s breeches, traversing the fields and wooded trails and racing around the overgrown course established by the first Viscount Melbourne.

The Queen’s husband, most often content to remain back at the Hall alone or followed by his young son into the great glassed conservatory, found a great deal of fond amusement in seeing Victoria shed all traces of the somewhat stiff, always decorous sovereign accustomed to living always in public view. Defined and constrained by her position, the Queen must always be a decorous blank canvas upon which her subjects could project their own ideals. But in private the proud, bookish, shy, overly-protected girl had blossomed under her husband’s loving tutelage and the example he set, into a vivacious young woman with growing self-confidence.

Melbourne took the greatest delight in his young wife’s naiveté and her adoration of him made her a natural pupil, eager to please. The shy, almost worshipful gaze she showed only her Lord M had not dimmed after seven years, five of them spent in blissful physical intimacy, and in the bedchamber as in the council chamber Melbourne had taken great pains to nurture and protect that essential innocence even as he encouraged her to grow in self-confidence. He had even encouraged Victoria’s piety, thinking it apt restraint for a young woman stepping into virtually unlimited authority.

At five-and-twenty, far from the blushing virgin he had taken as the most fragile of vessels, Victoria had grown comfortably accepting of her own physicality. She still, Melbourne sensed, harbored some vestige of insecurity, harshly self-critical of what she considered flaws, judging herself unfavorably against more worldly, sophisticated courtiers and the women he himself had known. He wanted, above all, for her to see herself as he saw her, his perfect, precious girl, freed from all self-doubt and to that end he nudged her to shed any remaining inhibitions. The natural human limitations of a lifespan as disparate as theirs – a bride forty years younger than her husband – meant that sooner rather than later he would leave her, and Melbourne had resolved long ago to leave her strong, independent and self-reliant.

Watching her at play, Melbourne had laughed out loud. The Queen of England, thighs encased in tight breeches gripping her horse’s sides, long hair streaming free as she leaned low over the animal’s neck, intent on making the final length ahead of her rivals.

He stood leaning against the rail fence, his daughter in his arms and his son standing on the lowest rail, both children cheering their mother on excitedly. Beside him, his sister stood holding her granddaughter’s hand next to Emma Portman. Those two women watched Melbourne rather than the race, had he chosen to notice.

At the last possible moment, the third horse and rider – a big man on a big-boned animal not obviously built for speed – pulled ahead and came over the finish line moments ahead of Victoria’s second place finish. All three were flushed with excitement, laughing and breathless. Victoria slid down into the man’s waiting arms, still laughing when he spun her about much as one would a small child before setting her down.

“About as far from Buckingham House protocol as one can get,” Lady Portman said. “With the new appointments, Vicky will have to start over learning to like what attendants she gets.”

Melbourne said nothing to that; he had no response to the incontrovertible fact that General Elections were only weeks away and would bring with them a Liberal majority and another change in government.

The three riders crossed over the dusty track, heading for the gate, still talking amongst themselves. Victoria’s face, lightly bronzed from weeks spent out of doors, swimming and riding and taking the children on long walks, was turned up to the man beside her. Her expression was open and friendly, alight with pleasure and none of the reserve she must needs show outside her own family. He, the man, was older than the Queen but still close to a contemporary. He had been at Court since Albert’s time, hanger-on, companion to the Prince and then the Queen, finally appointed by Melbourne to serve a more formal role as royal bodyguard and protector, head of a fledgling group dedicated solely to that purpose.

Fanny stretched out her arms, beckoning her own daughter, and Lily instantly demanded to be set down. Not to be outdone, the little princess launched herself at her own mother’s legs, nearly toppling Victoria. Billy Cameron swung the child onto his shoulders, where her small hands gripped hanks of his shoulder-length hair and began flapping them like reins.

“What?” Melbourne protested the look Emily gave him, her brows arched meaningfully, lips compressed. “Victoria deserves this freedom, away from all that is expected of her. It’s no life for a young woman, and she endured it without respite far too long.”

“Be sure that freedom you encourage doesn’t go too far, William. You made that mistake once.” Emily’s tone was sharp, her voice lowered and laden with portent. Melbourne huffed a small laugh, dismissing the faintest tickling unease her words brought.

“Emily, I am Victoria’s husband, not the father of a young miss. She has my whole heart and all my support, but I do not control her, nor do I seek to.”

“You said that once before too, William. Don’t be too lenient this time.”

“Dear sister, ‘lenient’ is not a word I would use for my wife, or my Queen. Perhaps you confuse her with Lily. I confess, as a father I am not the disciplinarian I should be. As a husband, I have no such role to play, thankfully.”

Stymied, Emily Temple looked away, her own pretty features determinedly relaxing once more. Emma Portman, attending to the conversation wordlessly, merely met Melbourne’s eyes for a long moment.

When they drew abreast he fell into step beside his wife and Victoria’s hand instantly sought out his. Together, companionably, they headed back to the Hall.

**

The children were sent to the nursery for luncheon and afternoon rest, while Victoria went to call for a bath. Emily went off to the kitchen, to give orders for a light luncheon and chilled summer wine to be set out.

“She’s right, William,” Emma Portman said tightly, when she stood alone with Melbourne. “Victoria is changing. I see it, you see it. Changing in a way that could lead to trouble.”

“How so, Emma? I think it’s natural she change. We all do. Do you forget how very young she is yet?”

“I do not forget,” Emma said tersely.

”The changes I think you notice will be less obvious in London. Here, she is free, and it is a beautiful thing to behold. This is a girl – a woman, now – whose mind was fed admirably in childhood, but whose spirit was repressed. And for whatever reason – I do not blame the Duchess – she has always been as insecure in herself as a woman as she was confident in her dignity as sovereign. I am happy to see her come into her own as a remarkable young woman.”

Lady Portman shrugged. “As you say. And of course, you are right, her dignity and sense of place will always carry her through in public. I will go help Emily now. I’m sure your Queen is eager for your company.” Melbourne took her meaning instantly and felt his cheeks warm. He was whistling softly as he strolled from the room.

During the long weeks away from public view Victoria, in the company of her husband, swam in the pond well-hidden in a copse of trees beside the banks of the River Lea and Melbourne watched with a mixture of pride and protectiveness when she no longer hid behind thick bushes to strip and dive in the water. Melbourne had taught her first to float, then to swim, and although he never took his eyes from her or moved beyond easy reach, Victoria began gliding through the water on the power of her own strokes, into water well over her five-foot height. Lithe with muscles well-toned from riding and daily swims, he could only admire this slim creature, small, compact, with taut belly and upright breasts just right to cup in his hands, well-shaped legs with surprisingly strong thighs and a pert derriere. His _wife_ , four decades younger and all his, yet she, with unbounded pride, would make the proud declaration of him, to him – “all mine.”

She lounged in the deep copper tub, legs stretched out, wonderfully, gloriously as nude as she was when she swam with him. Her bathing shift had been indecorously cast aside, and she was working up thick lather between her hands.

“Where is your maid, ma’am?” Melbourne asked playfully, seating himself at the edge of her vanity, very much enjoying the perfect view.

“I dismissed her, of course. I can bathe myself.”

“Oh, well, in that case I will leave you. I had thought my assistance might be of value but…” he made as if to rise and Victoria tossed a handful of silky, softened water at him.

“Not you, silly. Your help is always welcome.”

He dispensed with his clothing and joined her in the large tub, causing water to overflow as he lowered himself. Victoria rose onto her knees and carefully, with great attention, washed his hair and then began rubbing lather over his shoulders and chest. Her posture placed her breasts directly before him, bobbing on the water’s surface, but he kept his arms stretched out on the rim of the tub. Head tipped back to rest on the copper wall, eyes closed, Melbourne let himself drift on the pleasant sensations of water softened by scented oil, the feel of his wife’s hands ministering to him, her proximity. Even when the course of her painstaking labor took her hands lower, so that, gloved in thick lather, they began stroking his length, he only relaxed into her touch, content to receive whatever attention she offered.

“Billy said you are going to London tomorrow,” Victoria said afterward, sitting between his legs in the bath and leaning against his chest.

“I thought I’d return with Henry. He’s been summoned to attend a party meeting – unofficially, as such things are at this stage – and I intend to take part, whether or not they want my input.”

Melbourne’s arms were around her. Victoria was so petite that he could enfold her completely, but instead he dropped one hand into her lap and began teasing exploration.

“Why wouldn’t they want your input? Certainly, your experience must count for a great deal.”

“Some of the new men resent me, I suppose. And the older ones have always mistrusted me for tending toward compromise. That’s nothing new. The Whigs have never been homogenous in their views. We – they – only appear so to outsiders.” His middle finger had slid inside, while the side of his thumb grazed the tip of her pleasure-center. Circles with the thumb, finger hooked to find the sweet spot within.

“And yet you want to insert yourself into such disharmony,” Victoria cooed, her breath coming in shallow pants.

“I do. I miss being involved. It was my life’s work and I miss being out of office far more than I imagined I would. The past few years, Sir Robert and the Tories have sought my opinions more assiduously than my own party. And it _is_ still my Party, whether formally or not.” Circles, wide of the mark, teasing, until he felt the little nub grow hard and distended, hungry for more. Then he found it, gauging exactly the pressure, the direction most pleasing.

 “Your uncles were fervent conservatives and made their dislike of the Whigs plain. George at one point even composed a letter of abdication, which he threatened to deliver if the Whigs returned to power. And you know William dismissed me in my first term. The first King since Charles I to dismiss a government, and the very last, I hope.”

Victoria shifted herself in his arms, turning to face him. “I want you inside me. Please. It’s been so long – since before – “

Melbourne looked into her beseeching eyes, then found her once more and ensured she could think of nothing else, thinking he could drown in her eyes and die happily sharing the intimacy of her pleasure.

“We can’t go on avoiding…you know we avoided conception after Lily was born…” she was curled into his arms, and he cradled her like a child, savoring her languorous ease. _I did that_ , he thought. _As long as I can do that, she’ll always be mine_. He realized that was unfair, that Victoria’s heart was pure, her loyalty and fidelity never to be doubted, but the very idea that, after being the one to awaken her to all the wonders of lovemaking, she would someday find herself bereft, with an old, impotent husband, scorched his pride beyond bearing.

“Do you think I don’t want that?” Melbourne tightened his hold of her, pressing her against his heart. “When your courses are regular again, we can follow the timing of them. In the meantime, there are other things…”

“Yes…” Victoria sighed. Then she raised her eyes to his, her expression peculiarly shy. “William, are there _other_ things?”

“’Other things’? There are many other things. To what do you refer precisely?” Melbourne suspected he knew, or at least could guess the direction in which her thoughts ran.

“I don’t know what I don’t know, obviously. But there are books and – and I’m sure you’ve experienced things, done things, which you have not yet taught me.”

“Indeed,” he answered thoughtfully. “But none which I care to bring home. Those are things best left to the brothels.”

Victoria relaxed against him once more, her expression pensive. “I think I would like to know what they are. I don’t like not knowing things.”

Melbourne rose with a great splashing of bathwater onto the toweling spread over the floor. He lifted Victoria and set her on her feet.

“The water grows chill, ma’am.”

Melbourne had left Victoria to dress and went in search of his brother-in-law, hoping for a private word before they dined with their wives. Viscount Palmerston was nowhere to be found; a groom reported he had ridden over to Panshanger and was not expected to return until much later. At odds and succumbing once more to the restless boredom which so often overtook him lately, Melbourne wandered toward the stables, now partially converted to barracks housing Victoria’s contingent of formal Household cavalry officers.

Cameron, stripped to the waist, had seemingly washed in a rainwater cache. His broad, well-muscled shoulders gleamed wetly as he rubbed a towel over long, sopping hair.

“Have you given any more thought to staying on?” Melbourne asked, resting against a saddle stand, stretching his legs out casually.

“Nope,” Cameron responded shortly. He glanced sideways at Melbourne. “Have you come to convince me to stay? Or encourage me to depart?”

“Neither. Merely asking.” In truth, Melbourne had disappointed in Cameron’s decision to resign his official position directing Victoria’s protective detail, but he understood and was perversely sympathetic to the younger man’s restlessness. “Still planning to East again?”

“I don’t plan. But yes sir, that’s where I’ll undoubtedly end up. Always some nob needing escort, or logistics arranged for them to venture into combat zones where they don’t belong in the first place. Palmerston’s written ahead, an introduction of sorts.”

Melbourne was aware of feeling annoyance at his brother-in-law’s involvement in what should be none of his concern. Cameron was, after all, nearly family – had lived more closely with first Albert, then Victoria and the children, than any other attendant. The fellow came and went at will, clung proudly to his lack of formality and roguish demeanor, but had grown on them all.

“If you need anything else – “Melbourne allowed the offer, and his voice, to trail off unfinished.

“Dammit, I envy you, man. Whatever you’ll do out there, you’ll be in the thick of things, doing something besides serving time.”

Cameron laughed loudly. Then he tilted his head, studying Melbourne’s face.

“You’re not joking. Job not all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Job? I have no job, and therein lies the problem.”

“’Consort’ isn’t a job?” Cameron rubbed his chin. “No, I guess it’s not. Fringe benefits aren’t bad,” he winked. “But the rest of it must be a dead bore. Is being in Parliament so much more fulfilling?”

“It was the great object of my life and kept me afloat when everything else threatened to drive me mad. Now…being out of it is suffocating me.”

Melbourne surprised himself at how easy he found it to talk to the man beside him. Familiar and omnipresent yet a cipher, devoid of ambition, far more keenly intelligent than he appeared, holder of a minor Irish title he had seemingly no desire to parlay into anything greater. Soldier, adventurer, itinerant courtier by luck rather than inclination.

“What we sacrifice for love, eh?” The merest trace of a brogue lingered after fifteen years out of the bogs, but enough to lend his words a trace of assumed guilelessness.

“You too,” Melbourne said flatly, no question in his own voice. “And I’d sacrifice more if I had to, but it’s a damned strange life for a man. I’m proud of my wife, make no mistake, and have never desired to own or control her or any woman. But it would be satisfying to have something of my own again.”

“After running the country, I’d guess so.  You could always take a tour of the battlefields, you know. Report back to Queen and Government. You won't be the first by a long shot. I reckon I’ll turn back up in a few months, after I get myself in a scrape or two out east. Sooner if you or she has need of me, for whatever I can do.”

"Thank you. I'll - we'll keep that in mind, and welcome you back when you choose to return."

Melbourne sauntered back to the Hall, his mind turning to Cameron's startling suggestion.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful readers, and all of you are, will note that the advent of the Russell ministry has been accelerated by nearly a full year. Creative liberty and the butterfly effect of various happenings in our alternative history.

Victoria knew precisely when her husband left their bed. So attuned was she to his every mood as well as his physical presence, that she’d been roused from a sound sleep suddenly aware that beside her, William was awake and staring into the darkness. Her first inclination was to reach for him, seeking reassurance, to coax him out of whatever thought process so fully engaged his attention in the darkest hour before dawn. Instead something - some fledgling voice of maturity perhaps – told her to put her own neediness second and give him some measure of privacy. So instead, she concentrated on her own breath, willing herself to continue to slow deep inhalations of sleep, and only shifted infinitesimally nearer, so that he might draw comfort from her warmth if he wished without the need to acknowledge her own wakefulness.

Victoria knew her own need of Melbourne far exceeded his for her. She did not doubt his love for her, his fidelity or attachment. She acknowledged that her own essentially solitary upbringing had led her directly to him without the milestones and touchpoints of William’s longer, more varied life. Without him, she would not _be_ , in some elemental way, while without her, he might be lonely, bereft even, but he would still be Melbourne.

It chafed, that neediness, and in the beginning had caused her to lash out, perversely at him, the very object of her need. She had demanded constant proof of his devotion and been quick to push him away when she felt threatened. Even though she was the wife of another man then, it was her own ferocious jealousy and possessiveness which demanded a high price in the exclusivity of the attention she demanded. She had constructed the marriage of convenience which allowed them to come together with her new husband’s blessing and connivance, and Melbourne’s principled detachment and initial reluctance to cuckold Albert and endanger her reputation would always nag at her, eternal reminders that it was she who had pursued him and had to work to overcome his resistance.

Victoria battled her own twin demons, fear of emotional abandonment and an imperious demand for emotional primacy, to become the wife William deserved. She knew well that if she was given free rein to dominate, all those traits she found most attractive in her handsome, debonair husband, his wit and charm, worldly wisdom and sophistication, would have been dimmed to extinction by the rarefied isolation in which she would insist he live.

Learning which instinctive urges to quell – her constant hunger for attention and reassurance, the excesses to which her jealousy prompted, and the protective shield of emotional withdrawal behind which she retreated when her feelings were bruised – had been a long process, and something she still worked on. To please William, to be his true partner and equal, his refuge and solace, not one more tumultuous female to batter his sensitivity, was Victoria’s overriding goal. Without him – _without him_ , _the world would deal with me on my terms, like it or not._

Long after he’d laid a tender kiss on her temple and slipped from the bed they shared Victoria had remained motionless, miming the slumber which had long since fled, these thoughts running through her head as she fumbled to determine which response was best. _Perhaps none. Perhaps he has the right to be alone with his own thoughts. It is no rejection of me._ Was that the right reaction, the mature, generous reaction? Victoria did not know and had only Melbourne’s own example to guide her. Her mother had never remarried, and the only relationship she had modeled was in her desperate voluntary subjugation to John Conroy, the married British army officer who served as comptroller of her household and chief tormentor of Victoria’s youth. Baroness Lehzen was a pious spinster who had subtly encouraged Victoria to remain chastely unwed and reign proudly alone, another Elizabeth Regina. For the rest, most of the courtiers surrounding her at Kensington and later, Buckingham House and Windsor, seemed to consider marriage a business arrangement at best, an onerous burden at worst.

But William Lamb – for all he’d protested early on that he was no expert on marriage – was the best, the wisest of men and had only ever sought to serve, and then to love. Even those scandals which always be associated with his name gave Victoria, little though she liked it, the example of a man who gave love for its own sake, without making it part of a bargain, awarding it for virtue and withholding it for vice. “What would William do?” was the question Victoria asked herself, the standard against which she measured herself, often falling short when her own tempestuousness led her astray but the true north she never lost sight of.

When he was not to be found in the sunny eastern salon where breakfast would be served, Victoria walked down to the conservatory, thinking to find him there. The chief gardener pointed the well-traveled path Lord Melbourne had taken to the river, and she followed slowly in his footsteps.

Melbourne was sitting on a rock outcropping, facing away from her. The early morning light was hazy and fragile, and the water’s surface was as smooth as glass. Victoria was struck both by the beauty of the scene, like something Watteau might have painted, and an odd sense of _portent_ , as though she were seeing a memory form. That thought chilled her.

Her husband, the being she loved far beyond sanity and reason. Victoria adored him with her eyes, that thick head of silvering curls she so loved to twist around her fingers, his beautiful hooded green eyes, Roman profile, the glimpse of dark hair where his white shirt opened in a V, those hands resting on his thighs knotted and veined, with long sensitive fingers.

“Come to sit with me and watch the sun come up?” She started, surprised that he recognized her presence, although she was certain she had not made a sound. His wonderful gravelly voice was soft, his tone gentle, even intimate. Without turning around, Melbourne extended his arm and Victoria picked her way across the rocky ground.

The River Lea was at its broadest here, the lands surrounding Brocket Hall bisected by its course. Across the way, far in the distance, was a neat hunting lodge the first Viscount Melbourne had built. Farther on a bridge gave access to the eastern bank but just here, they might have been in the wilds of Yorkshire rather than a scant hour’s ride from London.

“How pretty everything is! I’ve never seen the air look like this, almost pearlescent.”

“Ah but how often are you out and about before the sun is up?” Melbourne chuckled softly. Victoria sat beside him on a large flat rock scarcely big enough for two, and he put his around her. Together they sat in companionable silence, and Victoria was glad she had come.

 _Will he talk to me?_ She wondered. _Tell me what’s troubling him?_ Victoria tamped down her own rising fear of something threatening _them_ , knowing it as unreasonable and baseless. _Not everything is about me_ , she reminded herself. It was the hardest lesson she had to learn, and Victoria knew she had only imperfectly absorbed it so far.

“Look.” Melbourne pointed. A large bird coasted low over the water’s placid surface before landing gracefully.

“A crane?” Victoria whispered, unwilling to disturb the serene hush around them.

“Grey heron.”

They watched the prehistoric-looking creature on long thin legs stepping about, heedless of their presence. Melbourne’s hand was warm on her shoulder and Victoria was content to watch the heron and further on, ducks swimming in groups. His hand squeezed her arm and she felt him kiss the top of her head. Then he lifted her hand, the one which wore his wedding ring, and examined it, turning it this way and that as though something had captured his interest.

“Mrs. Melbourne,” he said. Victoria tried briefly to intuit what thought, what emotion, his voice held, then gave up the effort. She wanted to ask and didn’t know whether she was motivated by simple interest, concern or need for reassurance.

“No one expected Peel’s government to weaken this quickly,” he said then, seemingly apropos of nothing. “The damned fool turned his back on his own party when he changed his mind on support for the Corn Laws. After that, the clock was ticking.”

Victoria only listened, not wanting to interrupt wherever his thoughts would lead.

“I suppose another six months, even a year, would have made little difference. My prediction is that the Liberals will win a slim majority. A coalition is possible but unlikely. You will ask the Whig favorite to form a new government. Henry thinks he’s ready and perhaps he is, but he requires some tempering and doesn’t have the support of the majority of the party. I suspect they will recommend you ask Russell.” Melbourne’s voice was both resigned and, Victoria thought, bitter.

“This is all guesswork on my part. They don’t talk to me anymore, don’t even want me to sit on their discussions.”

Victoria heard the plain hurt in his voice and protective anger flared in her own breast.

“I’d thought, foolishly I suppose, that I might be offered some position, Lord Privy seal – some honorific that comes with little power and is generally reserved for senior statesmen who’ve outlived their usefulness. But that will go to Minto. Or Minister without Portfolio, such as Wellington has been for Peel’s government. But that has not been forthcoming either.” He laughed without humor and Victoria knew better than to join him.

“’ _Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun_?’” Now the self-mockery was plain, and Victoria’s heart went out to him. William Lamb, the greatest of ministers, the finest of men, to be put aside by fellows who weren’t worthy to polish his boots, she thought, enraged.

“Here I am, exalted above all men in the greatest nation on earth, and yet I want more. Or less, as some might have it. Not power, but a sense of relevance, that I have something to offer, some reason to draw breath, to rise every morning and…” he stopped suddenly, and Victoria raised her eyes to him tentatively, trying to hide her own distress at his words.

“Oh, sweetheart, forgive me. I’m rambling like a fool. Try to understand, I speak of things outside of our marriage. Without you, all would be ashes. I haven’t had to earn my livelihood by simple toil and yet sometimes I envy those laborers we see trudging up the road every day, carrying their lunch pails. They’re _men_ , they know their place and their purpose, where to go and what to do each day. Do you understand?”

Victoria tried to nod reassuringly, but she knew he could see her lack of comprehension. Her mind was circling in confusion, grasping only that he was not happy, not content.

“Never mind. I’ll find something to occupy my mind once we’re back in London. Albert complained of this very thing, you remember. We set him on the Fine Arts Commission, steered him towards the committee evaluating poverty and living standards…encouraged him to explore his own interests. But he was a boy. I’m far from a boy and should have found a way to establish myself after I left office.”

“You are my mentor, my guide. I can come to you with any question, any matter which requires more information than my ministers provide. If you want to do more, want some – some assignment, some position, I’ll find something.”

Melbourne huffed a laugh, the sound kinder than previously and once again he squeezed her shoulders.

“I know you mean well, Victoria, but please…I don’t want my wife to _find me something_.  And you no longer need a mentor. You are a strong, wise sovereign. I abdicate my role as mentor, but never as husband." He was quiet, and Victoria sat nervously beside him, still struggling to understand what she could do to make things better. As though he could read her thoughts, Melbourne continued.

“There’s nothing you can or should do. Perhaps I shouldn’t have burdened you with my thoughts since I have not yet found any solution to my dilemma. But I do not want you to imagine that if I’m in a strange mood it has anything to do with you, or us. Or that I regret for an instant marrying _you,_  Alexandrina Victoria. For the rest – it will work itself out.”

He raised her chin and kissed her lips, nibbling, tasting her mouth. Victoria’s hand rose to lay against his face, her fingers twining in the soft curls.

“I need a barber, ma’am,” he laughed, turning his face into her palm and pressing a kiss there.

“No! I love your hair when it’s long. You are even handsomer.”

He took hold of her waist and turned her with strong hands, so she sat on his lap, then put his arms around her. They sat that way as the sun rose higher in the sky, listening to the geese honking and the caw-caw of the rooks flying overhead.

**

“Cameron’s leaving today,” Melbourne said as they walked back to the Hall holding hands.

“Is he really? He’s been saying that for months. The children will miss him. We all will. Where will he go?”

“Back to the east. Our Billy Cameron is an adventurer. I envy him that freedom, although even at his age I’m afraid adventure was never my forté. I was a bookish sort, content to immerse myself in my library for weeks on hand. Caro would have been attracted to our soldier of fortune. She liked the wild ones.”

Victoria shrugged. “I’ll miss him. He’s so easy and undemanding, like a brother. One can quite forget he’s about and never need to impress or entertain him. I think you will miss him too?”

“I suppose I will. As you say, he’s easy to talk to or ignore, wants nothing and stays out of intrigue and drama. And even though there haven’t been any madmen taking shots at you lately, his very presence is a good deterrent.”

As they crossed the stable yard Viscount Palmerston came out, full of exuberant energy and good cheer. He tipped his hat to Melbourne and bowed his head briefly to Victoria, careless of the more formal court etiquette when they were in their family roles.

“I’m off to London,” he said needlessly, making no mention of Melbourne’s previous intention to accompany him. “When I return, ma’am, you might behold – unofficially, of course – your next premiere.”

“Indeed,” Victoria responded noncommittally. Melbourne arched a brow and permitted the hint of a smirk to lift the corner of his mouth.

“Good luck with that, Henry.”

“You’ll stay away then? You know I think it’s for the best, William. Separation of Crown and Government and all that.”

“Yes, yes…just as William and George maintained fastidious separation, to show no partisanship.” Melbourne’s tone was heavy with sarcasm.

“They didn’t sit in on the strategy sessions, William.” Palmerston’s ruddy, handsome features attempted to convey sympathetic understanding but instead appeared, to Victoria, only smug. Suddenly irritated and unwilling to stand by as he taunted her husband, she nodded curtly in dismissal and walked toward the house.

Melbourne caught up to her in two long strides, huffing his small laugh.

“My fiercest defender!”

In the kitchen-yard, out of sight of both stable and kitchens, he held her back, standing so closely before her Victoria had to turn up her head to meet his gaze. His hands were strong at her waist, the small of her back, and she thrilled a little at the reminder that her gentle husband could be both strong and quite…firm.

“Do you understand I shared my thoughts because you are my wife and my partner in this venture, for such is any marriage? Or should be. Not because I wanted to complain or air any dissatisfaction. Marriage to you is quite satisfying, ma’am,” he bumped his hip against hers playfully and Victoria grinned back, ducking her head a little, bashfully. She was happiest thus, held against him in his strong arms, and would if she could cling to him endlessly, smothering him in the attempt.

“I am honored that you share your thoughts with me. You are the wisest man, the steadiest and most reasonable, and the country needs you in whatever capacity you serve. I do understand that it’s not my place to _fix_ anything, but you must know that I support you entirely in whatever you choose to do next.”

Victoria wound her own arms around his waist and laced her fingers together, rubbing her chin against his open shirt like a cat might.

“ _Whatever_ I choose to do next? Shall I show you?” He rubbed the tip of his nose against hers, then took her bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled, gradually increasing the pressure until she drew in a sharp breath. Then he laughed and released her.

“Let’s see if we have time before the children are up and about, Mrs. Melbourne.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

>  

After a month in the country Lord Melbourne welcomed the busyness and bustle of London. It was nearly nightfall by the time he’d arrived and once in Mayfair, he signaled his driver to pull over. He would walk the rest of the way. Melbourne stepped easily down and sent his valet on ahead to procure them accommodations and order a late supper. Then he began a leisurely stroll down St. James Street.

The lamplighters had already done their job and the street was awash in warm artificial light which, reflected off many street-facing windows, lent an air of enchantment to the warm September night. Rain had fallen earlier, and droplets still sparkled on every surface, adding to the festive scene.

There were as many or more pedestrians as there were riders on horseback and luxurious, well-spring sporting vehicles. Most of the _ton_ had come back from the country, eager to begin the fall social season in earnest, and Melbourne found himself hailed in friendly fashion more times than he could count. Well-born ladies picked their way over the cobblestones, impossible to distinguish from the lights o’ love in their finery except by the degree of solicitousness shown by the gentlemen at their side. Victoria had never seen this charming side of her own capital city. The Queen might venture out to the opera, to the theatre, but always in carefully managed excursions. Melbourne imagined how pleasant it would be to stroll down these broad streets with his pretty wife at his side. He remembered the simple excitement of a young woman dressing up for a night on the town and thought that if he was going to find a way to make it happen, it would have to be soon, while her resourceful personal protector was still around.

Victoria had been ready to return to London with him, and he had been half-tempted to tell her to do just that. That he hadn’t done so was not because he wanted to be apart from her, but because he _didn’t_ , and that realization made him laugh out loud at the foolish vanity it implied. Be parted from a woman he adored and the companion he preferred above all others, only to prove to himself he could was folly, but a few nights’ separation would make their reunion all the sweeter.

“Melbourne!” Yet another friendly voice hailed him, and he looked up to see George Villiers, 4th Earl of Clarendon. The other man was already doffing his hat and sweeping it aside in a low bow.

Melbourne bowed most civilly in return, the hint of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. They spoke for a few minutes cordially enough, Melbourne resisting the urge to pepper him with questions on the recent Whig conclave, and Clarendon either oblivious to his interest or carefully skirting the issue.

“I had not heard the Court was returned to Buckingham House,” Lord Clarendon said. “Will there be an entertainment to mark the beginning of the Season?”

“I expect there will be,” Melbourne murmured, although in truth he had given the matter little thought and Victoria had not discussed it with him. “To welcome the new Members, certainly, and mark the appointment of a new cabinet. You will be a part of that certainly.” He had spoken with whispery nonchalance, looking down. When he raised his eyes, the other man flushed deeply, swallowing hard.

“Dammit, man, it’s no secret. Russell offered me Privy Seal again but now that we’ll have free trade once more, thanks to Peel growing a set, I held out for Board of Trade and got it.”

“He has all of his appointments decided then? Any that will surprise me?” Melbourne’s façade of easy laughter lingering just beneath the surface soothed the other man’s trepidation.

“Not at all. Or – or Her Majesty. Nothing to protest, although you understand it’s not for you to carry tales back.”

“Is that what they think I will do? ‘Carry tales back’?” Melbourne cocked his head at an angle, and a smile quirked at his lips although his hooded eyes were cool.

“No – yes. I don’t know. It’s a damned awkward situation. You have plenty of friends, but none that know what to make of you in the Party.”

“Why the secrecy? Her Majesty understands that the Party which wins a majority will decide who to send her and from there it’s all a formality.”

“You above all should know how it was when the King stalled on calling you, and then dismissed your government three months later. No one wants a repeat of that.”

“There won’t be,” Melbourne murmured smoothly, with finality, indicating the conversation was closed. “I must be on my way. I’m dining at Brooks. If no one objects?”

Walking along with every appearance of elegant nonchalance, Melbourne dismissed what little he’d heard. It came as no surprise that his alliance with the Crown should unsettle the members of his own former party, these men he had known from boyhood, cradle Whigs as he himself had been. The past four years under Peel and the Tories had been easier to bear. Conservatives were unabashed Royalists whilst the Whigs pretended to a reformer’s zeal Melbourne had long since dismissed as a danger to the very way of life they prized.

He thought instead of his last day and night at Brocket Hall. He might have left a day earlier and caught up to Palmerston, or even forced his company on the other man only for the amusement of watching him squirm when they arrived together at the meeting where Melbourne knew he was not welcome. But he refrained.

Thinking to spare Victoria his mood, he chose to find some perverse satisfaction in brooding solitude. He’d ended up stretching out on a sofa with the very headache he’d invented as an excuse to miss dinner. When he awoke later, stiff and disoriented, his head rested Victoria’s lap and her cool soft fingers toyed with his hair in a manner so pleasantly soothing all trace of earlier ennui fled. She held a book in her other hand, seemingly absorbed in its content, and Melbourne was as content to loll in blissful relaxation as he’d been edgy and irritable earlier.

Lying at ease, he reflected on how good such homely touch felt, and briefly contrasted the childish pleasure of having his hair played with as his mother had once done, with the knowledge of other, far darker diversions his precious girl would never know.

 _Sybil, or The Two Nations_ , was the book she held, and she had a habit of absently nibbling on her lower lip when especially engrossed in a passage. Her dress had been light blue, not his favorite color, a simple frock compared to those she would wear once the Court returned to Buckingham House, and her dark hair was bound up in a knot at the base of her neck. The light fragrance wafting from her skin, jonquils and a subtler scent uniquely her own. He remembered everything, so inconsequential yet so memorable _. This then, this was love, contentment, happiness. How could he want for more?_

**

George Eden was up from the country and when he saw him bowing before him, Melbourne remembered their long friendship and forgot the ineptitude which had led, indisputably, to the later butchery in Kabul. He invited Auckland to dine with him and they passed a tolerable few hours over beefsteaks and a good Burgundy. Cracking the second bottle, Melbourne drank lightly, remembering another call he wished to pay later that evening. They spoke of Eden’s sisters, of matters in the East – Melbourne deftly avoided both ratifying the other man’s somewhat distorted memory of his own part and openly disputing it with the knowledge lately obtained – and of the political climate in London. Auckland asked after the Queen in most gentlemanly fashion and Melbourne was able to speak fondly of Victoria and the royal children, relieved that matters which might lead to dissension could be avoided.

They parted at twenty minutes past twelve, Eden apologetically and Melbourne with well-concealed relief. As soon as he was certain he might do so unobserved, he sauntered into the gaming room and ostentatiously bid those present a good night. Then, rather than climb the stairs toward the sleeping chambers used by members without their own townhouses, or those who preferred to avoid them for reasons best left unexamined, Melbourne beckoned the doorman.

A discreetly uncrested closed conveyance was waiting in front. The ever-faithful Tom Young greeted him with a familiar smirk on his face.

“Tom – wipe that grin off your face,” Melbourne growled. The hansom driver knew where he was going and eased them away from the curbing while Young still cackled gleefully. The man’s impudence was fair trade for his usefulness, Melbourne had long ago decided, and the near-friendship which bound them despite wildly disparate circumstances was one which had often puzzled his contemporaries. Even Greville had seen fit to memorialize Tom Young, quoting his pithy sayings and disreputable character.

Their destination was as far from Covent Garden and the notorious Vauxhall district as it was possible to be, a refined Georgian townhouse in Pall Mall guarded from street view by neat box hedges and black wrought iron fencing. Not merely for show, the first of several guards – former boxers who earned a comfortable living working for Charlotte Grivening – stuck his battered head into the interior of the carriage. Melbourne merely looked at him coolly, as Tom reached past him to display an embossed calling card.

Within, Mrs. Grivening herself greeted the newest arrivals with flattering distinction. She gave herself the airs of a Duchess and Melbourne condescended to bow, his lips stopping short of contact with the pudgy freckled hand extended expectantly.

“William,” she trilled, no trace remaining of what had once been a broad Yorkshire accent. Melbourne remembered her as a sprightly redhead of twenty-something, their association was that long-standing.

“Charlotte, you look just as I remember you,” Melbourne drawled, his lips drawing into a knowing smile. “Still the most popular girl in the house?”

“Of course! I’m the one with the keys, and the box of gold sovereigns under my bed.”

Melbourne laughed at her bluntness. She instantly ordered refreshments be brought to her private drawing room, one of the niceties of her house that ensured one client need never encounter another. The four story pink stone building was as well-appointed and tastefully decorated as any noble house in London, without a hint of fringe or gold braid to be seen and the muted pastel tones which perfectly complemented suites of furniture she had had shipped from France.

An excellent bottle of sparkling wine and plates of delicate cakes appeared, set down by a slender fresh-faced girl who would not have been out of place in an Earl’s drawing room. Melbourne’s glance flickered over her and his eyes were kindly but disinterested. It felt vaguely improper to even make such a comparison, but he had a far prettier young woman waiting for him at home whose innocence and goodness were not assumed for trade. Tom Young’s own assessment was more obvious but equally unimpressed.

“Charlotte, please take my friend to the card room.” Melbourne handed Tom a roll of bills, then settled back in his chair, sipping appreciatively from a crystal champagne flute. Only when he was alone with the proprietress of the house did he permit her to tactfully ascertain his intention.

**

Victoria sat before her mirrored vanity, waiting for her dresser to remove the final pins from her hair. When the woman had spread it out like a glossy dark capelet and picked up a hairbrush she shook her head slightly in dismissal. When she was alone, rather than get into bed Victoria went to the bowed window seat. Only the stars attracted her gaze. No matter how many miles separated her from London, and _him_ , those same stars looked down on them both.

Within an hour of his departure Victoria had decided she’d had quite enough of ruralizing in Hatfield. She’d given orders for the household to begin the process of packing and readying the children for an early morning trip. 

When Cameron came up from the stables Victoria had greeted him with a barrage of instruction, everything she’d thought of to expedite their return to London.

“Can’t wait another day or two, ma’am? I believe Lord Melbourne intends to return in that much time.”

“I don’t wish to wait any longer. You will please let the sergeant know to have our escort ready in the morning and send a rider to Buckingham House to alert the steward and Lord M of our plans.”

He shrugged, the gesture so familiar that Victoria wondered if anything ever surprised or disturbed him, and that thought led to the realization that he shortly he would be gone.

“What?” he chided her. “Why are ye grinning at me so?”

“Because I realize how much we are going to miss you. Somehow, you’ve managed to make yourself indispensable, for all you pretend to be the laziest creature alive.”

“I _am_ lazy, ma’am. You wrong me if you say otherwise.” He smiled in return, a sleepy expression that belied something more intense lighting his eyes before he looked quickly away.

“Why must you leave?” Victoria asked, and the plaintive note in her own voice made her blush. “You don’t believe in any of it,” she amended, trying for a more reasonable tone.

“I don’t believe in any of it politically, ma’am. I do believe in a few things. I believe that I have brothers-in-arms out there yet, men who were boys when they first came out and know nothing but the subcontinent and life in a remote outpost. Some of them have wives and children there now and they won’t be leaving any time soon. Things are going to heat up quickly and I suppose I want to be in on the action.” He grinned suddenly, meeting her eyes. “I’m bored. Something your husband understands, if you don’t. Men have to feel…useful.”

“You _are_ useful!” She protested.

“Well…you get the dispatches and I know you read’em. What you don’t read are the everyday goings’ on. There’s a Queen out there, another such as you, Maharani Jind Kaur. Her son is just a boy so she’s the real power, the regent. And she wants war. To cut the legs out from under the Sikh army who are our allies, to get revenge for the death of her brother, to strengthen her own hold on power – power, isn’t that always what it’s about in the end? And a mother fighting for her son’s interests, that’s a formidable enemy. By the time I get out there it’ll be all out war, and I want to be a part of it. I also wouldn’t mind meetin’ the maharini if we’re lucky enough to capture her and make terms.”

“I’d like to know more about this queen, the maharini. Why has she never figured in any of the accounts they write me?”

“Because she’s only a woman, ma’am, and men have a hard time taking any woman seriously.”

Victoria had been listening intently, engrossed in his plain, offhanded way of talking as she was with the slight undercurrent of awareness between them.

“You will write me – us – and tell us about this maharini, and about everything else you see and hear. And you will not take any foolish chances with your safety. You are worth far more to the Crown alive than as a target for Jind Kaur’s guns.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cameron lifted his chin and looked down at Victoria with such warmth it might have been insolent if not tempered by his habitual lack of seriousness. For a moment Victoria forgot to breathe, wondering if… _if he might take liberties_. She felt as comfortable with him as she might with a brother, if she had one, except when she didn’t. Then it was as though a pet lion, fed by hand, suddenly remembered its own wild nature.

He raised his hand, palm down, in a creditable salute.

“If there’s nothing else you want, I’ll go let the men know we’ll be heading out first thing. You won’t need me any more tonight then?”

Victoria felt her cheeks grow warm, her eyes widen with shocked surprise, her mouth drop open. Words didn’t come. Then he laughed, a warm fraternal sound, teasing, disingenuous, and her awkwardness passed away.

“No, Lord Cameron. Or _Colonel_ Cameron, I should say. I won’t need you any more tonight.”

**

He turned down his cuffs and slid each monogrammed link into place. He turned up his collar points and stepped in front of a pier glass to meticulously arrange a dark green silk cravat. Then he slid his arms into the exquisitely tailored black frock coat held out for him. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it forward so the curling locks lay flat against his temples. He used a snowy white handkerchief taken from an inside pocket to fastidiously blot a few lingering beads of perspiration from his face and examined his reflection carefully.

He felt good, better than good. Energized, with the stamina of a young man of twenty. As though he could ride all night or go a few rounds in the pugilist’s ring. That last thought made him laugh out loud at his own folly, for even in his youth he had been neither athlete nor fighter. Nonetheless, he felt _damn good_.

His gaze flickered over the second face he saw in the mirror. Her _face_ was not what held his attention earlier, and it was not what appealed to him now, or what he would take away with him in memory. He’d wondered whether he would feel any trace of guilt or even abasement, novice as he was to the concept and practice of fidelity, but although he would never choose to explain his activities in this room to the wife he adored, neither had he dishonored the marriage vows she took so seriously. No, he thought, nothing _here_ had any bearing on what happened _there_. He’d had no carnal knowledge of the woman behind him, nor had he been so inclined, despite the still-throbbing power of his physical response. He was genuinely repulsed by even the thought of assuaging those sanctified desires anywhere but in the arms of his beautiful wife, and for that he was grateful and relieved. This female was, after all, both a willing participant in what had transpired and a well-compensated one.

No, he thought, I have no reason for remorse. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, ye of little faith!

_Benjamin D'Israeli_

 

Melbourne slept late into the morning, awakened only by the determined effort of his valet. That good man swept open the heavy velvet draperies with a clattering racket, allowing bright midday sun to wash over the room, the bed and its noble occupant.

He opened his eyes blearily and dismissed the man with a demand for coffee. Instead of hastening out, Baines stepped closer to the bed and uttered a few terse words in clear ringing tones, words which propelled Melbourne to an upright position. He pushed overlong, unruly curls away from his eyes and ran a hand over his grizzled chin.

“Water, shaving supplies, fresh linen, sir. What message shall I send the Palace? And Mr. D'Israeli, who is waiting in the Subscription Room in hopes you will join him.”

“Thank you, Baines. Why, no need to send any message to the Palace. I will deliver it myself. And yes –" Melbourne did not bother to suppress a groan. “I will meet Mr. D'Israeli briefly. But I want coffee sent up. I cannot face him without reinforcement.”

Alone once more, Melbourne threw back the bedclothes and rose. He dropped his nightshirt to the floor and stretched luxuriously, suffused by a sense of well-being and vague, anticipatory excitement. Excitement of another kind too, he realized with no small measure of pride. He’d dreamt during the night, a dream so vivid it had brought him release while he slept. A common occurrence in adolescence, far less so in a mature man, yet here he was, rising once again, that demanding instrument throbbing, muscles clenching, clamoring for attention. Instead he went to the basin and poured cool water. _In a few short hours I’ll be home._

When he sauntered into the great Subscription Room his gaze swept over those club members already present. D'Israeli was no member of Brooks – the Reform Club would not have him either, Melbourne knew – not so much because of his Hebrew heritage as due to his reputation as a rabble-rouser and a very uncouth appearance. Brash, insistent on being noticed, ostensibly so sure of himself and determined to force his opinions on others that Melbourne thought he must, under that assertive exterior, be entirely bereft of assurance. Melbourne resisted any audible sigh when the fellow sprang to his feet with a great show of exuberance and greeted him loudly.

An attentive waiter brought Melbourne's specially brewed black coffee, along with a second cup for his guest. When D'Israeli attempted to speak – or, rather, to continue the effusive dialogue begun whilst they were still standing – Melbourne held up a hand, palm out, signaling him to pause in his refrain.

"Ah…." he exhaled with satisfaction, having inhaled the steam vapors rising from potent dark brew. He blew gently, sipped, blew again and took another taste. "Nectar of the Gods, you know."

Melbourne studied the man sitting across from him from under lowered lids. Dark, intense, with a long narrow face and liquid black eyes, Benjamin D'Israeli had none of the refined elegance of manner requisite for ease in the highest reaches of polite society, yet he was received everywhere. His overdecorated wife, her Grosvenor Gate home and her fortune made it so. Melbourne found the man's intensity off-putting, the extreme energy he radiated exhausting to behold. Black curls clung to his face in damp tendrils and he was visibly perspiring despite the cool early autumn day.

 “Lord Melbourne. Thank you for making time to join me. I’m sure you must be eager to reunite with Her Majesty.”

Melbourne lifted a brow, hoping to convey mild amusement. “Yes indeed, it has been…nearly twenty hours since I left her."

D'Israeli, contemptuously called Dizzy by most members of his own Party and the Whigs as well, merely laughed, a cloying, ingratiating sound, Melbourne thought.

“Yes, well, like you I find great joy and satisfaction in marriage. I'm sure you can understand, since you likewise married a young, beautiful female. I mean no offense, I speak of your wife and not our Sovereign."

 _Young, beautiful female –_ Melbourne did not smirk, no matter how much he wished to, determined instead to repeat the conversation for Victoria's amusement. Mary Anne D'Israeli was a middle-aged, comfortable, matronly-looking woman with a taste for flamboyance in dress and jewels to overcome her lack of birth. He held no animosity toward the woman, and in fact harbored some sympathetic admiration for her devotion to her graceless husband. Or, he reflected, _at least I should_. The letter she'd written Peel in '41, begging him for office for her husband, was the stuff of legend. His debt was likewise legendary, with creditors' petitions posted outside his Shrewsbury offices. He seemed to derive little financial benefit from his association with the great banking families.

"What did you think of _Coningsby_ , my lord?" D'Israeli blurted. Melbourne showed little of his surprise, merely twitching his brows.

"I can't really say. I'm sure I must have formed some opinion but if so, it quite escapes me at the moment."

"There are those who suggest it was autobiographical, while others speculate it was you of whom I wrote. Not the first time you figured in a novel, but with happier results."

Melbourne busied himself in pouring more coffee into his cup. He took it black, with nothing to lighten or sweeten it, finding the bitter bite invigorating. He reflected on their momentary near-encounter in the wee hours of the morning. A happenstance which a house as well-regulated as Mrs. Grivening's strives to avoid, yet in the darkened stairwell two gentlemen emerged from chambers at precisely the same moment. Each stepped back inside, but not before a flash of recognition was exchanged.

He cared little what the man did or didn't do, but thought he understood this sudden display of bonhomie. D'Israeli was not only entirely dependent on his wife's resources to fund his lifestyle and political aspirations, he was amongst the first generation of politicians who needed to appeal to a middle-class electorate and he appreciated the poignancy of a personal narrative which resonated in the hearts and minds of his constituents. His marriage was at the very heart of his campaign. And, to do him credit, it was reputed that D'Israeli had fallen in love with his wife and she certainly doted on him. Melbourne inclined his head in vague acknowledgement of the point D'Israeli was trying so very hard to make, hoping to stem the tide. As distasteful as it was to be drawn into another man's affairs, Melbourne thought he comprehended the other man's urgency to secure some sign of understanding.

"Pray remember Mrs. D'Israeli to Her Majesty. My wife still relives the ball at Stowe when the Queen showed her such singular distinction. Alas, Lady Jersey and her fellow patrons still hold themselves reserved. Despite being received by the Queen herself, and of course Lady Londonderry's recent courtesy, Mary Anne pines to receive a voucher for Almack's. At present my wife is quite exhausted from the recent stresses she has endured. I've attempted to sell the copyright to my works to raise funds and even insure my own life to secure further loans, to no avail. You can see, we are at an impasse. "We leave for Dover today. I am unable to bring my dear wife back to these shores until she has fully recovered from our financial embarrassments. £5,000 is what we so urgently need."

Melbourne was now thoroughly confused, and the flood of confidences gave no sign of slowing. He rose and signaled the waiter for his hat and walking stick.

"You must bring your wife to the next entertainment we hold. I'm sure she will be revived by an evening at Court and who knows? It might prompt a thawing of Lady Jersey's reserve."

At this vague speech Benjamin D'Israeli looked almost annoyed.

"My beloved wife is an angel. Her health, her nerves are fragile. Any further shock to them would be too great to bear. _You_ understand what I am saying."

Melbourne furrowed his brows, trying to fathom what possible response he might offer. He finally settled for clapping the other man lightly on the shoulder. He showed him a gentle smile and walked away.

**

The September sky was impossibly blue overhead, with a bright sun offsetting the hint of crispness in the air. Such a glorious day, Melbourne thought, the weather in perfect harmony with the lightness of his mood. It seemed positively serendipitous, Victoria's impulsive decision to return rather than wait for him at Brocket Hall. All who passed him couldn't help responding in kind when they saw his jaunty gait and that charming smile he bestowed on everyone he met, regardless of rank or station. Only a few rare newcomers, bumpkins from the farthest northern shires, failed to recognize the Queen's husband on sight and his popularity was universal.  

Melbourne ran lightly up the great marble staircase and trod the familiar path to the Queen's apartments. Around the last corner leading to their private domain he saw Victoria and her mother coming toward him, accompanied by the chief steward.

He grinned at the picture Victoria presented, hardly five feet tall and so slender she might have been a girl just out of the schoolroom, talking animatedly to the Duchess of Kent. When she looked up and saw him her face lit up – he thought there was no other description so apt – and she started, as though to run into his arms. _Not twenty-four hours,_ Melbourne marveled to himself, _and this splendid girl lights up with pleasure at seeing me._ He knew himself to be happy, and fortunate beyond all hope.

"Lord M!" Her sweet clear voice was music to his ears, her unabashed pleasure the perfect balm.

"We are taking advantage of the freedom from oversight to move some things around and put a few particularly awful pieces of furniture into storage. Once there is a cabinet once more, the Privy Council will think to offer their opinions on what sacrilege it is to remove a single item. The Chief Steward at least follows my wishes."

Melbourne understood that Buckingham palace formed an exempt jurisdiction within the tangled web of overlapping responsibilities, subject to the Court of the Lord Steward of the Household, held in his absence by the Treasurer, the Comptroller, or the Steward of the Marshalsea. The Lord Steward was at the head of the Court of the Queen's Household—the Board of Green Cloth. He was a sworn member of the Privy Council. At least at Buckingham House, unlike Windsor, there was no shared oversight by the Commissioners of Woods and Forests, with the consent and cooperation of each required to get anything done, no matter how minor. Albert had discovered to his amazement, Melbourne recalled, that it took both departments to keep the cavernous rooms at Windsor heated – one to bring in the wood, another to light a fire. This Chief Steward, on the other hand, was a career servant rather than political appointee and clearly not immune to the pleas of a young woman – or the imperious command of a young Queen.

Melbourne greeted the Duchess of Kent, smiling into her bright blue eyes and winning a smile in return. Then he walked easily at his wife's side, her hand in his. In low slippers the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and he experienced a momentary temptation to pick her up bodily, to hear her shriek with outraged laughter. Since that would go beyond the pale he contented himself by amusing her with easy banter, enjoying her soft laugh, gratified when her mother joined in and even ventured to return a sally.

They parted at the door to the royal apartment, the Duchess of Kent announcing her intention to wash off the accumulated grime of their excursion into the warrens below stairs, and Melbourne felt his anticipation rise once again. As soon as they'd stepped inside he closed the door firmly and turned the key in the lock.

"I missed you," Victoria cooed, winding her arms about his waist and turning her face up.

"I've missed you, ma'am. And I brought you something. Do you want it now or later?"

"A present? What?" He laughed when her eyes opened wide, like a child's.

"Something you recently said you wanted." He pulled her close and nudged her, so she could feel his readiness. He saw the exact moment she understood, recognized the hot dark look in her big blue eyes.

"Now?" Victoria asked, her voice cracking with uncertainty and, perhaps, shock. Or desire.

"If you wish, now. Or should I make you wait for it?" He rubbed himself against her again, unable to completely stifle a low moan. _How I've longed for this_ , he thought.

"Now, if you please," she whispered shyly, stepping back to reach for his hand and lead him to their bedchamber.

"Now," Melbourne agreed, but instead of following her he drew her back and turned her away from him. Moving with great care to control his own eagerness, he found his way under her skirts, moving aside layers of fabric. With her back to him, facing the door, he was able to nibble at the soft, finely-haired skin of her neck, pressing his teeth against her and sucking hard, while his fingers found and readied her. She was hesitant, but she was also ready for him, yielding and damp. He opened his own clothing, taking something from his pocket and putting it in place. Then he bent his knees and gripped her smooth round derriere. She groaned in pleasure when he entered her, arching her back to ease his access and take him in further.

"I've missed this," he muttered against her ear. "Oh my God, how I've missed this." It felt like coming home, home to himself and his perfect bliss. When he squeezed her cheeks harder, spreading them with each thrust, she responded by pressing herself against his hands, seeking more. He held back until he felt her slight figure wracked by rolling shudders. When her muscles rhythmically tightened, encompassing him so wonderfully he had no choice, he released, giving himself to her completely.

He nearly collapsed against her, pressing her against the door, and then remembered himself and stood, hurriedly tidying himself. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bedchamber.

"I've missed…that. So very much. Can we - continue? Is it safe?" Victoria asked lazily, laying against the mounded pillows where he'd placed her.

"I've made it safe. Would you like to see?" Melbourne drew out the rest of the neatly wrapped bundle from his coat pocket and laid it on the bed. Victoria's brows furrowed in puzzlement. He took one of the small transparent items and held it up. When she intuited what it was her mouth opened in an O of surprise.

"How clever!" she exclaimed. "How…very ingenious. You – you wore one of these little things when you – when we -?" Victoria's breath was catching, and she held a hand to her mouth, trying to suppress her giggles. "Show me. Oh, please show me."

"They won't work now. One must be fully erect and then they adhere quite nicely."

"And does it feel the same?" Victoria held up one of the nearly-translucent objects, clearly the size and shape of a male member.

"You tell me. Did it feel the same? I was quite satisfied." Melbourne shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes, then sprawled on the bed beside her, feeling deliciously spent.

"Do others know of such things? Where did you get them? How did you _know_ about them? Do they look quite silly when you are wearing one?" She continued peppering him with questions.

"It is called a condom or baudruche, a French letter or a whole host of slang terms I won't tell you, and certainly others know of them. Parliament was asked to make them illegal in 1708, considering them insufficient to prevent sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis. Moralists consider any form of preventing conception sinful and there are those who would place a harsh penalty on possession or use. Thankfully there are others with greater sense who advocate their use and even go out to educate the poor. On the other hand, it would not do to have anyone know we practice contraception. The Church of which you are head is quite reasonable but there are evangelical sects which find it necessary to poke their long noses into the bedroom. Besides….only the best for you, ma'am, and I happen to know where to procure the very best."

"Well, I was hardly going to bring it up over dinner, or at the next Council meeting." She giggled again and Melbourne huffed a little laugh.

"Why didn't I know about such things? Where did you get these? I am quite pleased that you did but –" Victoria still held one in her hand, looking from it to Melbourne speculatively. "Can I see?" She was biting her lip and Melbourne knew it was to keep from laughing aloud.

"I'm afraid if you laugh you will render its use quite unnecessary," he teased, pulling her toward him until her head was pillowed comfortably on his shoulder.

"Now put it down and rest with me, Mrs. Melbourne. Tonight, I will tell you where I got them and how. It turned out to be a more curious outing than even I anticipated."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Victoria went to her office, determined to be prepared for the first audience she would have with Sir Robert Peel since the events of the summer. She had grown accustomed to him over the past years, finding – as Lord M said she would – that he was a good man, diligent, eloquent and increasingly passionate about issues of social justice most Tories dismissed as weakening the natural order.

The dispatch boxes had found her at Brighton and Brocket Hall and she had diligently reviewed everything that was sent to her, but the memorandum Peel had waiting for her contained a long list of matters upon which he wanted her advice and consent. He was determined, she thought, to make the most of however long he remained in office.

Melbourne found her at work in the blue closet, the small private sitting room she used as her office within the private family apartment. Her reference works were close at hand as always, a copy of a well-worn and heavily underlined and annotated Black's Law Dictionary, a set of chancery statutes and, in a stand beside her desk, the large globe manufactured for Her Majesty by special letter patent.

"Did you sleep, Lord M? Since you had such a very _late_ night?" She looked up with a teasing glance, but Melbourne could see she was distracted, her mind still on the work laid out before her. Victoria's meticulous attention to the details of her position and her work ethic meant that she relied on careful preparation. He stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, and favored her with a small, proud smile.

"Queen Victoria," Melbourne intoned, his voice low and rasping over the syllables with more raw emotion than he'd meant to infuse. She raised her eyes to his once more, her own gaze as soft as his.

Then, she sighed and made a moue of distaste. "Lord Palmerston addressed the Lords while we were still at Brocket Hall, yet he did not bother to let me see what he intended to say. Peel sent me a copy of Palmerston's speech, and his own response." Victoria slid the pages towards him.

Melbourne took up the first, five densely written pages. He arched his brow mockingly.

"The honorable gentleman concedes that he has no motion before the House, yet he certainly finds a lot to say on nothing," was his first reflective comment. He looked to her for permission to read before beginning.

Victoria tapped the end of her pen against her lip, watching his expression as he read.

"Very comprehensive," was Melbourne's measured response. "He is speaking for the record, of course, for posterity and for the future. This is a challenge to the Party – his party – not the Tories. Peel knows his days are numbered. Henry seeks to stake his claim. He would like to be your First Lord."

Victoria sighed once more. "He is so headstrong, so volatile. I do not question his loyalty, or his patriotism, but he plays a dangerous game and doesn't seem to moderate his tone. And I can't like the way he speaks publicly on matters which should be brought to me first. He was with us a part of every week all summer, yet he said nothing."

"Henry is always going to be who he is, a loose cannon. It is effective, sometimes, but he must always be partnered with a cooler head and more conciliatory manner. Think of him as a gun, primed and aimed but loaded with all blanks, save one live round. Our adversaries will never be sure which time he'll fire true."

"You think the Party will suggest I send for him?"

Melbourne shrugged. "I wish I knew for sure. Henry is the one who warned me away from Party meetings, even from going to the club when the rest were there holding their _conclaves_. His words. I went to see for myself and felt none of the mistrust he assured he I'd find."

He walked around the desk and laid his hands on Victoria's bare shoulders. She'd changed her gown and had her hair dressed more formally, wore jewels for the first time since their month-long country retreat. She was a Queen once more. He knew his warm, funny, unbound girl was still there, beneath the veneer of sophistication, and enjoyed the secret knowledge of who she was behind the image she showed the world.

"Do you want me to stay? I'll keep you company as you work, if you wish. If you can dispense with my presence I thought to take Liam to ride in the park."

Victoria rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand and dropped a kiss onto his wrist.

"I can dispense with you if I must. Go. There are hours of daylight left to enjoy. I want to be prepared for Sir Robert's audience tomorrow. He has worked hard for us these past years and I do want to show my support now that his ministry is winding down. Shall we invite them to dine?"

"By all means. Perhaps we should invite several of the Tories. D'Israeli and his wife, if they are still in London next week." Melbourne's lip quirked into a smile. "We can talk about it later. I will leave you now. Wish me luck in extracting Liam from the nursery without causing Lily to storm and rage. She is quite out of sorts from missing Alice and won't take kindly to seeing her brother and I head out without her."

Victoria rose quite suddenly, pushing her chair back. She turned her face up to Melbourne's, and he cupped her cheeks in his hands.

"Go then. I will contrive, my lord."

**

" _'Dominatrix'_." Victoria repeated the word, giving it a delicate French intonation. Her husband found it unspeakably erotic coming from her lips.

"Did you see – how do you know that is what he had been engaged in?" Melbourne's eyes were fixed on her piquant heart-shaped face. He chose his words carefully, determined to treat the subject matter lightly, maintaining a humorous tone. She was curious, as most well-bred, carefully reared young women were, but this required a great deal of finesse and sensitivity. He wanted to tell her no more than she could comfortably accept.

"I most certainly did _not_ see what he was engaged in. Nor did I want to. The lady whose chamber he was leaving is a renowned dominatrix. Most occupants of that house practice certain exotic specialties. It's how the proprietress has managed to amass a tidy fortune over the years. That, and her absolute discretion. What happened last night was a mix-up that I'm sure horrified her."

"So this gentleman – he _is_ a gentleman, or you wouldn't know him, or he, you – pays someone to cane him? Why would that be pleasurable?"

"I can't say, ma'am, having never been caned. There are various ways of subjecting a client, or partner, to domination. More ways than even I know of, I'm sure."

"But surely the pain prevents any – any urge to engage in further intimacy?" Victoria's forehead was now deeply furrowed, and she looked almost distressed. Melbourne stroked her soft cheek, pushing the long hair back and tucking it carefully behind her ear.

"Since caning and humiliation are matters which have never interested me in the slightest, I cannot speculate. There are other ways in which measured amounts of sensation, given and received, can lead to a very intense sexual intimacy."

Victoria received this information in silence, and he watched carefully the play of expressions on her exquisite little face.

They were sitting in the great four-poster bed, both propped against a mountain of feather pillows, Melbourne in his dressing gown and Victoria a rose-pink negligee. It was that comfortable time of night when he and she existed in a world of two. Reading together, discussing the events of the day, savoring an exquisite sense of union and perfect companionship. He reflected how sure he had been that this simple bliss would never be his, for it was not to be found in the beds of other men's wives or within a marriage of convenience, had he been willing to settle for such.

He had described Liam's quiet satisfaction at having his father all to himself, and his excitement when they rode as far as Regent's park, where they were privately admitted to the Zoological Society exhibition of an elephant and rhinoceros. Victoria spoke of the first ball of the season, still some weeks off, and the formal dinner they would hold some days hence.

He had waited to see whether Victoria would bring up the subject he had hinted at previously, and he was not disappointed.

"There are, as I've told you, many things of which you know nothing and need to know nothing. It has nothing to do with us, except to satisfy your curiosity. But if you _are_ curious…"

Victoria sipped champagne and set the glass down carefully. Then she licked her lips and looked up at her husband from under her lashes.

"You said there are other sorts of sensation which – " she fumbled for words. "which can be pleasurable. Those are things which gentlemen only engage in with prostitutes hired for that purpose?"

"Not necessarily."

"Do you – did you engage in such _exotic_ practices with other women? Other than women hired for that purpose? Did they bring you more pleasure than I do?"

"Victoria." He spoke her name with great seriousness. She stared fixedly at her lap until he gently raised her face with a finger under her chin. "There is no comparison. You give me great pleasure. Making love to you is the most exquisite pleasure I can imagine, physically and emotionally. Do not ever think otherwise."

He lifted her onto his lap and cradled her there, kissing the top of her dark head. Her fingers played idly with the sash on his dressing gown and she kept her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Melbourne picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. Under the filmy transparent gown, he could see firm, upright breasts, small and perfectly shaped, her stomach as taut and flat as though she had never given birth, her buttocks gleaming, invitingly well-rounded. He laid his palm flat against them, stroking, smoothing.

"I am more fortunate than I ever could have imagined, Victoria. _You are a wonder, and you are all mine."_

"I have no more experience than any other man of my age, and I emphatically do not intend to burden you with tales of my misadventures. I will assure you that I have no more skeletons in my closet and most of the rumors – ah, yes, I have heard them all – are greatly exaggerated."

"What rumors? Do you mean – _that woman?_ " Victoria almost hissed the words, and Melbourne raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head ruefully.

"We have exhausted the topic of Caroline Norton and need not bring her up again. No, I referred to the other trial and those damnable letters Lady Brandon's husband made public."

Victoria shifted in his arms and began to pull away, but he held her close, knowing that if he could maintain contact, could soothe and reassure her, she would not be so prone to take instant umbrage.

"There is a book – quite popular in my youth, although it was already a hundred years old – which describes all sorts of _exotic_ lovemaking practices. When I was here in London, alone, shortly after Caroline died, I made some very stupid mistakes, in committing to writing certain passages from that book which I found particularly...stimulating. Men tend to dwell in imagination on those very things they have no opportunity to practice. Naturally – with my luck, why should I be surprised? – my letters fell into Lord Brandon's hands and when he lost at trial he sold them to the press." Melbourne heard his own voice crack and grow hoarse, as it often did under stress, and he looked down sheepishly.

"Lord M! Are you blushing?" Victoria trilled, turning to face him and touching his cheek.

"It's damned embarrassing to have your…to have such sensational fantasies bandied about as though they were fact. And it didn't only harm me – as you know, men have a way of emerging unscathed from such scandals, no matter how excruciating the humiliation is to bear. I had to send Susan to the Continent with Lady Brandon because even she, a girl of fifteen, my ward, who had not spent a single night under the same roof as I after Caroline died – was dragged into the mix. All because of my own stupidity in writing out passages from a book written long before I was born."

The frisson of pleasantly intoxicating flirtation had faded, and Melbourne felt precisely as he had described – _stupid,_ a fool.

"You are not a fool. You are a man. Well, perhaps that is redundant." She was deliberately teasing, her lips smiling, her eyes full of love and understanding.

Victoria rose to her knees and wound her arms around his neck, her fingers sliding through his hair. His arm went around her quite naturally, the flat of his palm resting on her soft rounded posterior, stroking, smoothing through the gauzy fabric.

"Do you still have that book describing such things? I'd like to read it for myself and know what you found so appealing." She tilted her head and looked up at him coquettishly from under her thick lashes. Melbourne's heart swelled, proud of the woman she had become, grateful she was his, warm, real, in his arms and in his bed.

Then she put her lips to his ear and whispered so softly that her breath sent a shiver up his spine.

"Tell me. Describe something we have never done, that you would find it exciting to teach me. I want to experience everything with you."


	6. Chapter 6

Victoria turned her head this way and that, giving her reflection a cursory glance, and then nodded with satisfaction.

"Thank you, Skerrett."

She daubed a touch of scent on the inside of her wrists, on the pulse points as her mother had taught her, and lifted her arm to sniff the light floral scent. _A woman should have one fragrance. If it's well-chosen it will become her signature._ Added to that advice was the addendum, sweetly delivered to remind Victoria that she would never quite attain the allure of worldliness to which she aspired. _You are too young and not sophisticated enough for something heavy. Lilies of the Valley will suit you._

And in fact it did – Lord M liked it and without realizing had exactly echoed her mother's words on more than one occasion, complimenting the subtle fragrance which clung to skin and hair, telling her how exactly it suited her better than the odor of musk or waxy gardenias, one of which gave him a headache, while the other made him sneeze.

He had also told her that it was the flower of her birth month and regaled her with a charming legend that told of the affection of a lily of the valley for a nightingale that did not come back to the woods until the flower bloomed in May. Lord M also said that in the language of flowers no choice could have been more apt for him because it signified the return of love, and she was the love he had waited for all his life.

The sweetness of that memory caused Victoria to rise so suddenly that she startled her dresser, who had been holding a flounce up to the light.

"This flounce is torn. It will only take me a moment to mend, ma'am," Skerrett said nervously, mistaking her movement for impatience.

"That's fine, Skerrett," she said absently, drawing her silk dressing gown tighter and tying the sash belt. Underneath, she wore only chemise, corset and stockings. Melbourne's valet would be with him, she knew, but one's most personal servants were accustomed to exercising tact and discretion. How else would one bathe and tend to intimate physical needs?

Melbourne's dressing room adjoined hers, the access point between their two suites and his most often neglected bedchamber. She jiggled the knob pointedly before turning it.

Melbourne stood before his shaving stand, still naked to the waist, his trousers slung low on his hips without benefit of suspenders. Victoria paused to admire the figure he cut, lean torso with that delicious dark soft hair leading in a line to below his waistband. His face was covered with lather and he had just accepted a freshly stropped straight razor from Baines, who waited nearby. Some gentlemen were shaved by their valets, Lord M had once said, but he preferred to handle it himself, even derived satisfaction from doing so as precisely as possible. Victoria enjoyed watching him go through the manly rituals of his toilette, still thrilling to the pride of possession such access indicated. _All mine_ , the words echoed in her mind. This man, the most handsome, most charming, most desirable she had ever seen, all hers, the wonders of his body and the things he did to hers – Victoria could not imagine the life she might have, if it had all gone another way and she had not found the courage and resolution to defy expectation and reach for happiness.

His eyes, those beautiful hooded green eyes, flickered to hers in the mirror before returning to his own reflection and the necessary care his task required.

Victoria lowered herself to a low boot bench, almost holding her breath as she watched the progress of the glittering steel blade over those beloved, handsome features. Turn one way, arch his neck, _scrape scrape_ , then turn the other and repeat, after first dunking the instrument into a waiting vessel to rinse off the lather. He lengthened his upper lip, then lifted his chin to address the most delicate area of his throat.

Baines, his valet, dipped a small soft towel into a pan of steaming water and wrung it out. Victoria stepped forward and extended her hand. When Melbourne had finished she carefully used the soothing hot towel. Baines, well trained to show no surprise at the Queen of England usurping his role, simply took back the warm towel and handed her a dry one so she could complete her self-assigned task.

She wiped the curves and planes of his face tenderly and tilted her own head up to look into his eyes with an expression that was as deliberately seductive as she could make it.

"Little minx!" He swatted her behind playfully and turned away but not before Victoria saw that he was not immune to her display. She spared a sidelong glance toward the waiting valet and was reassured to see the man had stepped into the walk-in closet, where he was busying himself inspecting the contents.

She stepped up closely behind Melbourne and put both arms around his waist, leaning her head on his back. His bare skin so soft, the muscles underneath firm—Victoria sniffed to inhale his spicy scent and, unable to resist, bit down gently, tasting.

"May I remind you we are expected at Grosvenor House in less than an hour, ma'am?" His voice was a soft growl. Victoria let her hand explore further down.

"You're anticipating a good dinner then, Lord M?" she teased, her fingertips dancing lightly over the silky skin. Emboldened by the considerable reaction as he grew under her touch, Victoria encircled him with her hand. He became so thickly engorged so quickly against her grip that she moaned softly in anticipation.

Melbourne made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been annoyance or disappointment and shifted away, extracting her hand and adjusting himself. He took a freshly pressed shirt so white it seemed to glow and floated the fine fabric down over his torso.

"At least fifty of the guests will be ladies. I want to be sure you're thinking of only me," Victoria said, pretending to pout. She never felt as certain of his exclusive attention as she saw and felt the tangible proof.

"And the other fifty will be gentlemen, most of them much younger than me. You must let me conserve my…resources."

Victoria pursed her lips and inclined her head. "You have no need to conserve. And I have no interest in other gentlemen."

He held her face in both hands and kissed her forehead, each temple and the tip of her nose before finding her mouth. His kisses, she thought, soft kisses, almost chaste; deep probing hungry kisses, as though he would devour her, his tongue pushing into her mouth in another sort of penetration. _How I love the feel of his mouth on mine!_

Melbourne released her and turned back to the mirror, wrapping the ends of his green silk cravat into an intricate knot beneath raised collar points.

He often chose waistcoats and cravats to complement her gowns on formal occasions, another small signal to the world of their union and one Victoria very much liked. When the neckcloth was arranged to his satisfaction Baines held out the coat he would wear. The simple black garment was so perfectly tailored to his physique it required considerable effort to settle into place. Victoria watched the process with a small, almost maternal smile, finding these small tokens of male vanity endearing in this most divinely beautiful of men.

"Well, madam? Your verdict?" Melbourne held his arms out, awaiting her inspection.  She reached up to tweak a curl on his recently cropped head.

"I still prefer your hair long but of course you will be the most splendid man in attendance. That goes without saying." Victoria let her hand drop from the silvery curls to his sharp cheekbone, caressing.

"Lord M." She whispered the name like a prayer.

**

Richard Grosvenor, having recently succeeded to his father's title to become the 2nd Marquess of Westminster, was holding the first lavish entertainment of the Season in their beautiful Park Lane home. A long classical-style colonnaded entrance faced Upper Grosvenor Street. At each end was a triumphal arch with pediments above sculpted with the Grosvenor arms. All vertical surfaces and the adjoining tree branches were festively alight with glittering white lights, and the sound of stringed instruments playing came toward them.

Grosvenor House was only a short ride from Buckingham House but Melbourne had given the coachman specific directions on the route he must take, so that Victoria could have at least a glimpse of her city at night. The streets in the theater district were busy with pedestrian traffic, young bucks catcalling loudly at gaudily dressed women lounging on street corners. Victoria leaned forward as far as she dared, taking in the sights and sounds of the evening while Melbourne held her hand in his lap and pointed out particularly interesting sights. No one paid special attention to one elegant black coach emblazoned with only a single discreet crest on its door, and Melbourne thought if they had known their Queen was within, it would have mattered little to those intent on an evening of revelry in the theatres, the opera houses and dance halls of London.

Lady Elizabeth and Lord Westminster stood at the head of the stairway, bowing deeply when the Queen's carriage arrived. Naturally, the evening would not commence until Her Majesty arrived and so the other guests mingled freely in the grand entrance hall. By common understanding they separated, moving against the wall and forming two lines between which Victoria and Melbourne would be led by their hosts to greet the other guests

Victoria had paid a visit to the Grosvenors' country home when she had been only thirteen and had afterward written in her journal that "The house is magnificent."

As accustomed as she was to the demands of polite society in spending little time in her own husband's company on social occasions, Victoria still hoped she could delay their inevitable parting as long as possible. But soon enough they were separated, Victoria accepting an offer by Lady Elizabeth to view the picture gallery. After that it was time to go in to dinner.

**

Melbourne attended to Richard Grosvenor as that gentleman solicited his opinion on the outcome of the General Elections, even as he kept Victoria in sight until her slim figure disappeared around a colonnade. He realized how foolish it was, to keep such a close eye on one's own wife. In his youth he would have been the first to laugh to scorn any suggestion that a husband and wife should prefer their own company to that of others in society. And yet now…now…

He was ever wary of how readily his own insecurities could turn him into a laughingstock, a possessive and perpetually jealous older man sure that his young wife could be led astray. It wasn't that he didn't trust her fidelity; he knew with every fibre of his being that Victoria was that rare thing, an entirely faithful spouse, a young woman who had given her heart to her first love, and he was privileged to have it in his keeping. No, his trust in Victoria was incontrovertible. It was _happiness_ itself, that fickle bitch, he mistrusted. Sooner or later something would happen to tear asunder this gossamer dream he was living.

After dinner, and the gentlemen's interlude with port and cigarillos, the company was led to the great ballroom added on in the '20s. Their host opened the ball with Her Majesty and Melbourne did his duty in waltzing with their hostess. As soon as he decently could, Melbourne found a convenient expanse of unoccupied wall to lean against and amused himself pretending to watch the dancers as he made conversation with those he sought him out. In fact, only one person in that great ballroom held his attention.

"Quite the crush," a voice said at his ear. Melbourne turned in surprise at the laconic drawl. Henry Hardinge, 1st Viscount Hardinge, approached..

"We are only here to have a look-in. We set off tomorrow at daybreak," Hardinge explained.

After serving as Secretary at War again in Sir Robert Peel's cabinet, the Queen had only recently signed the order commissioning him Governor-General of India. Melbourne had viewed it with mixed feelings, his old attachment to Auckland and Ellenborough's subsequent dealings leaving a complex web of shifting alliances and cross-interests that would require more diplomacy than heavy-handed intervention. He knew Hardinge had Palmerston's support, but Melbourne would have far rather seen his own brother Frederick in the role. Fred, however, had never been under serious consideration by either incoming or outgoing administrations. His younger brother was a diplomat extraordinaire, but the East India Company oligarchs and their militaristic friends in Parliament who dictated Eastern policy.

"You're taking a good man with you, Hardinge. Her Majesty and I are not pleased to lose his services."

"Ah yes, the Protection Service. Her Majesty's _secret service_. Perhaps what he'll be doing there will not be such a radical change. I can't say more now, but Captain Cameron will be tasked with keeping our special envoy alive and well during some sensitive negotiations."

Melbourne reflected on all he knew so far about the very intriguing, and delicate, negotiation. He also knew that it was doomed to fail and in all probability a feint, a ploy to buy time while they put themselves into position to oust the feisty female warlord Jind Kaur.

Despite his disclaimer, Hardinge continued to say a great deal more, so much so that Melbourne lost interest. Some twenty minutes later the man was still expounding on the strategy he intended to execute and the tactics he intended to employ to that end. Melbourne had whiled away the time emptying a succession of champagne glasses which were rapidly replaced and wishing heartily enough time had passed that he could in decency reclaim his wife's attention. He had picked her out in the crowd several times, a petite glittering figure ablaze in diamonds and dark green silk the precise shade of his own waistcoat and cravat. She waltzed in the arms of a series of partners. Her usual social anxiety seemed to be held bay and she appeared to be enjoying herself. So he told himself, despite the rankling annoyance he felt surge up each time his wife was swept past in the arms of another man, looking up attentively so her elegant white neck was exposed or laughing in that way which softened and lit up her pretty face.

When time she left the floor and sought out rest in one of the gilded chairs placed in alcoves around the perimeter he hoped he might have an opportunity to spend a few unremarked moments in her company but she was always surrounded by a crowd He wanted nothing more than to whisk her away and take her home and knew how unreasonable an ambition that was.

Melbourne finally found his escape in the person of Lady Jersey, who boldly stepped between him and Hardinge and demanded archly he favor her with a dance. The former Sarah Villers was an old friend and former intimate, whose sister had married his first wife's brother, and after their dance she deftly steered him away from Hardinge, now standing alone and looking oddly forlorn. John Ponsonby had only recently succeeded his father 4th Earl of Bessborough, and Melbourne commiserated with him on his loss and congratulated him on his attainment.

"Russell intends to offer me Ireland," Bessborough confided. "I depend on you to tell me how to go on there."

"Don’t trust the mails and certainly don't trust the diplomatic couriers," Melbourne replied drolly, to amused laughter from the other man. "Seriously, if you can stomach the air in Dublin castle it's a fine stepping stone to greater things. But it's also a damned hornet's nest and O'Connell will take five years off your life."

Victoria took the floor once more, this time with a slender well-dressed man Melbourne recognized instantly. She seemed to fit well in his arms, her slender form molding herself perfectly to his chest, one strong arm resting most properly on her back. There was nothing untoward about their conduct, yet Melbourne felt unaccountably annoyed. No, more than annoyed, he felt a dark rage building and had nowhere to direct it but inward. With deliberate effort he turned back to his companions and extended his hand to Sarah Villiers, Lady Jersey. She was an accomplished flirt and graceful partner and carried the burden of conversation as they moved across the floor, Melbourne scarcely noticing he held a lovely woman in his arms.

"I would like to get some air. Will you escort me, William?" _No_ , he thought, _I would not_. But he could not say so. Instead he offered Lady Jersey his arm and together they wound their way through the crowd to the nearest exit.

The porte-cochère was empty save for a few loitering coachmen far in the distance, and the cool autumn air instantly cleared his head.

"Come," the woman beside him slapped his arm playfully with her fan. "I saved you from Lord Hardinge's prosing. Surely you can spare me a few minutes' attention."

Melbourne smiled tightly. "I'm sorry, Sarah. Am I terribly distracted?"

"You are, and I would take offense if I didn't know you are a late convert to the ranks of the husbandry. How is married life? Better this time around?"

Her pretty face had aged well; she was still a handsome woman, and not one who made the mistake of clinging to the fashions of her youth. Melbourne's face warmed into a more genuine smile.

"Ah yes, infinitely."

"Good. You deserve it more than any other man I know. Her Majesty is a fortunate woman. Now that – " she used the fan once more, this time to point at something in the middle distance. "- has an odd sort of symmetry to it. Perhaps you will take me in? I would like to greet the dear Duke."

Melbourne looked in the direction Lady Jersey had been facing and recognized Victoria, standing alone with a companion on a small balcony opening off the ballroom. Beside her stood the Duke of Devonshire. There was nothing improper in the scene, save for the fact that the Queen – _his wife_ \- was unaccompanied in the presence of another man. William Cavendish was his own age, a debonair, self-assured aristocrat with undeniable charm and a seductive manner that, along with his fortune, had earned him a series of celebrated mistresses. Just the sort of man, in fact, that Melbourne had often thought would be far more likely to tempt Victoria than a rough-and-tumble younger man.

He went cold, and then hot, an unpleasantly intense brew of emotions surging up, possessiveness certainly, anger at _her_ – as unreasonable as it was – and anger at the Duke preening himself in front of Victoria, gesturing elegantly, leaning forward to whisper something in her ear. Dark flickering thoughts came and went, and Melbourne momentarily wanted nothing more than to assert his _ownership_ in front of the other man, in front of the whole damned ballroom. A sudden, almost primal physical urge with no tenderness attached, the instinct of any male animal to claim his own by the most elemental of methods. All that came and went in a matter of seconds, before Melbourne regained control of himself and smiled once more, urbanely extending his arm to Lady Jersey.

"By all means, Sarah. Let us go greet the Duke." _And then I will take my wife home and remind her she is mine. All mine._ It was not like him to do any such thing; never before had he demonstrated such a need to possess and own.  _But I've never before had such a treasure to lose._

William Cavendish, the Duke of Devonshire, had never married, a circumstance widely attributed to a broken heart at losing the love of his life as a young man. The pathos of that legend only enhanced his appeal to the many women of all stations who fell into his bed. That first love, lost to another man,  had of course, been Melbourne's wife, a circumstance neither man had ever forgotten.


	7. Chapter 7

 

The cobblestones were damp outside her carriage window. The new gas lanterns in this part of London did a serviceable job and the base of each pole was surrounded by a cone of light rendered eerily luminescent by the moisture-saturated night air.  If Victoria hadn't known precisely which route they followed she would have felt entirely disoriented by the wall of fog obscuring their surroundings.

The atmosphere inside the carriage seemed to mimic that without, unfamiliar, thick with suspense and the anticipation of something unknown lingering just out of sight. Victoria leaned back in her seat, weary of pretending an interest elsewhere.

"William, will you explain why you seem upset? Are you angry with me?" she demanded with asperity she did not feel. What she felt was off-balance, her world tilting precariously as it did on those rare occasions when her husband withdrew into himself. It felt, Victoria decided, as though she were on the verge of panic, as though she couldn't draw a satisfactory breath. She knew herself to be uncommonly blunt and without guile, needing and expecting the same from those she cared for, deeply uncomfortable with ambiguity and even more with anything that felt like withdrawal of affection. She feared emotional abandonment above all things, perpetually dreaded a return of the emotional isolation of her childhood, when Mama was present, even cloying in her affection, yet her entire consciousness was focused on _him_ , on her married lover, to the exclusion of her own daughter. No one _saw_ her then, as though Alexandrina was no more real than one of the numbered dolls so carefully dressed and groomed and set on a shelf for display.

"Angry at you? Why? Should I be?" Melbourne spoke with excessive urbanity, in that honey-smooth cultured tone he used with courtiers and ambassadors, people with whom he was friendly but not quite friends. When she looked at him directly, the handsome face was composed and remote, those hooded green eyes cool with something dark lurking where she was accustomed to finding only warmth.

Victoria cast her mind back over the evening they'd spent at Grosvenor House, at the Westminster ball. She had met and conversed with the usual attendees one saw at these gatherings, had been introduced to an unusual number of newcomers, mostly younger sons about to take their seats in the House of Commons the following week. She had acquitted herself well in smiling and conversing with those haughty, supercilious society beauties she always suspected of mocking her behind her back. She had waltzed several times, each time unable to resist looking about for her own husband even as another gentleman laid his palm on her back, took her hand in his.

She had seen William dance several times, always with women he knew well from years past. Since the apoplectic stroke the day of Lily's birth had left a slight vestigial weakness in his left leg he avoided dancing, except with her or partners he was entirely sure of, lest he stumble and shock some unsuspecting female. Victoria never saw the ungainliness he feared; to her he was always grace personified, so sure of himself, moving with such easy liquid motion.

The other William, for so he had begged her to call him when they first met years past, William Cavendish, had paid her his usual flattering degree of attention. He had long been one of her favorites amongst the senior nobility, for despite his ancient lineage and wealth, he never talked stiffly to her as though it was a duty to do so, nor did he appear in a hurry to move away when they met. Victoria had always found herself most drawn to gentlemen cast in Lord M's mold, Wellington, the Duke of Devonshire, Lansdowne and the like. They made one feel quite _safe_ in their presence, socially secure, unlike young gentlemen who preferred the company of bold flirts like Miss Stanhope and even dear Fanny Cowper, before her marriage.

The Duke had appeared exactly on cue to rescue her from one of these, a young man left in her company by his proud Papa. Victoria had grown more proficient at leading small talk, as protocol demanded she must with all but a chosen few, but this young man had been especially gauche himself, which only exacerbated her own shyness.

The Duke of Devonshire had joined them, placing a champagne flute in her hand as though executing that very task by her request, and excused his presumed delay in returning. He thanked the young gentleman most suavely for taking his place and dismissed him in the politest manner imaginable. Then he'd suggested they step out onto a balcony, to partake of a few moments' cooling night air before returning to the overheated ballroom.

Victoria knew from the inescapable gossip in her own drawing room that he was called _The Bachelor Duke_ , and that his affairs with women and men were too innumerable to count. Yet no breath of scandal attached to his name, and Devonshire's presence at one's dinner or ball was considered social cachet. He had no enemies, or none who disparaged him openly, and his _ton_ was as flawless as his tailoring. He was a social lion of the first order, yet he put on no airs; to the contrary, each time they met Victoria felt as though he was especially delighted to see her as a woman, not merely the Queen. He even made her feel pretty and the light flirtation in which they engaged was most exhilarating, and even Mama had said that the Devonshire line and title were more ancient than her own, so that his attention was to be considered a compliment.

Victoria said no more, only folded her hands in her lap and rode quietly until the carriage stopped. Melbourne alighted first, turning as he always did to offer his hand. As her foot touched the ground she looked up at him and shivered, thinking how suddenly unfamiliar he looked, the same shape, the same chiseled features, lips and eyes, yet remoteness made him appear almost sinister. So tightly wound, so controlled, she thought, as though he must keep himself tightly reined in lest he explode. Victoria couldn't bear the thought that _her_ William, _her_ Lord M, had been replaced by this stranger. _What if he doesn't love me anymore? What if something has happened to change his feelings_? She knew how childishly ridiculous such thoughts were, knew that no one changed in a single night, but that adult wisdom did nothing to assuage the fears of a frightened child.

"You go up, ma'am. I am going to walk a while." His voice was almost a growl, low and raspy. Her mouth dropped open in an O of shock, and the sheer panic in her expression must have reached him for Victoria saw, with a feeling of great relief, a sudden softening of his expression.

"I am going to walk about the grounds for a time." He stroked her jawline with two fingers, ending at the corner of her mouth.

"You will – you will come up – soon?" Victoria asked, her voice trembling. His lips tightened into a dry smile.

"I will come when I come, ma'am. But I will come to you, have no doubt. You _are_ my wife." Two Royal footmen stood at attention nearby, and the outriders' horses jingled their bits, moving restlessly. Melbourne stood back and watched Victoria climb the stairs alone.

**

He strode the perimeter of the great walled courtyard, went through a service gate and into the gardens beyond. He had no destination in mind but knew the terraces and walking paths like the back of his hand and thought only to exert himself until the rest of the restlessness and near-anger clouding his thoughts had cleared away.

Once, in his youth, in the heat of a tumultuous marriage he had lost control with Caro. With far greater provocation, certainly, and long before the poet's advent, when he'd still allowed himself the luxury of unrestrained emotion. The aftermath of that night had left him as shamed and shaken as it had left Caro stimulated and newly intrigued in the husband she had dismissed as having ice water in his veins. For a long time afterward Caro had tried to renew the hot ungovernable rage which had overtaken him, because that was the lover she wanted, the lover– and man – he was determined to never become. If it was a choice between losing himself and losing her – well, he'd made that choice. She was an adult entitled her own choices as well, and if those led her farther astray he would not interfere. Despite the recommendations of many of his peers, William Lamb wanted no part of a wife who must be trained and disciplined like a child or dog. She would come to him willingly or not at all.

But he always remembered the heady intoxication of tapping into that vein of dark, violent passion, and he took every precaution so that it never came out again. After Caro it had been easy; he had been fond enough of Elizabeth Crosbie to imagine she might be the closest he would ever come again to finding love, and certainly both she and Caroline Norton had experimented with him in erotic play. But neither those ladies, nor any others with whom he engaged in mutually satisfactory sexual dalliance, aroused the sort of dark, possessive fury that Caro once had, or that his innocent, virtuous Victoria could.

He was clear-headed enough to know that she had done no wrong, had not even contemplated anything untoward, had neither experience nor inclination in the sort of dalliances that Devonshire, and he himself, considered a pleasant diversion. That was not why he was out here alone in the dark, he thought. He was not angry with her, only consumed with a primitive need to take her, fill her, brand her with his flesh, take her so she would know she was his. And that part of his nature – he had to acknowledge such urges were a part of him, no matter how undisciplined and lacking in refinement – that wild, uncontrolled passion, he would never show his precious girl.

**

Victoria sat silently as her dresser removed and carefully put away her jewels, unbuttoned the green silk, untied the ribbons holding her petticoats in place. She waited until the pins were removed from her hair and it was brushed smooth to lay over her shoulders and flow down her back in a dark wave. Standing behind a screen, she removed her undergarments and took the gown and negligee Skerrett handed her. Then she dismissed the woman and went to wait in her small sitting room, wait for her husband to return.

He had had that book delivered, in plain paper wrapping, purchased she thought by his general factotum Tom Young. Or perhaps by one of the women in that brothel he had once frequented, the women who engaged in all sorts of peculiar practices depicted and described in the pages of the small 18th century volume.

Victoria reminded herself that not everything was about her, but she had great difficulty believing it. For better or worse – frequently the latter – her entire life everyone had focused all their attention on her. At Kensington her every word, inflection, pronunciation had been watched and critiqued. She had been constantly taught, trained and criticized by those around her. Conroy had devised the system by which they sought to mold the perfect sovereign. It had frequently been unpleasant, sometimes satisfying, but even when she was criticized most harshly or punished by seclusion or having some prized possession taken away, she had always been aware that everything, literally _everything_ , in her world _was_ about her. If Mama was annoyed, it was because Alexandrina had disappointed. If Conroy was harsh with the servants or made Mama cry or even sometimes left to spend extended periods with his wife and children, it was because Alexandrina had been a deficient pupil, a bad ungrateful girl and now Mama was sad. Even her half-brother and sister seemed to exist only as shadow selves, holding a far distant place in Mama's affections. She had left them behind when she came to England to give birth to a future Queen, another sacrifice of which Victoria was often reminded.

She had noticed William seemed to be moody of late. Over the past few months he would be absent-minded and withdrawn, writing letters and swearing over the paper, arguing with Palmerston behind closed doors, forgetting even his nightly bedtime rituals with the children, reading to them, listening to them talk about their day. Then he would emerge from the doldrums, laughing and playful once more, and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Victoria knew because he'd told her that it would be especially difficult for him when the Tories were out and his own party, the Whigs, formed a government, because they were more determined to keep the former premiere at arm's length than Peel and Wellington had been.

He was as exquisitely gentle and respectful in their most private moments as he was in public, if more playful and tender. As much as she adored that about him, Victoria sometimes wondered – and more so lately, in the face of his restless discontent – if she should show him that she did not need to always be handled with such care. Perhaps he needed, wanted, an outlet for his frustrations, or perhaps he simply missed engaging in some of those things he laughingly called _exotic_ which other lovers had shared.

She picked up _Les Dames Gallantes_ and began turning the pages, reading about some things which frankly horrified her, others which made her feel vaguely nauseous…and still others which made a warm heat spread through her, anticipating her husband's return.

**

When a full hour had passed, all warmth had faded, taking with it contrition for whatever it was she might have done. Instead Victoria was annoyed, then angry. _Two o'clock. Thirty minutes past two, forty, fifth. Three o'clock_. _How dare he!_ She abandoned her spot on the brocade sofa and began pacing back and forth, pausing on each circuit of the small room to stare out the window into the featureless night.

When she finally – _finally!_ – heard the doorknob rattle in the apartment beyond, Victoria rushed through her own apartment. _So, he would go to his own bedchamber and leave me here waiting!_ The thought enraged her, being dismissed with so little regard.

"Where _were_ you?" Victoria demanded in a strident voice as soon as she'd thrown the door open wide. She remembered belatedly that his valet might have waited up and saw with instant relief they were alone.

Melbourne had just shrugged off his coat and was loosening the knot in his cravat. He looked weary, she thought, not sleepy but rather exhausted, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes more pronounced, his mouth drawn down.

"I thought you would be asleep," he answered quietly, reasonably.

"Well, I wasn't and I'm not. I waited for you."

"As I see, ma'am. Why don't you go to bed now? I am here, safely returned. It's been a long night and I'm not in the mood for conversation."

"I am," Victoria said simply, approaching him across the expanse of thick carpeting. Her feet were bare beneath her flowing diaphanous gown and her steps were silent so that she seemed to float.

"You seem to have been tolerably well-entertained tonight. You engaged in a great deal of _conversation_ already."

A thought struck Victoria with such blinding force it was as though that old phrase – _the scales fell from my eyes_ \- was literal truth.

"You're jealous!" she breathed, awestruck at the notion. Melbourne's head was bent over his cufflinks, trying to undo them, and he glanced up, amused. His mouth quirked in a small smile that never reached his eyes.

"Does that surprise you, ma'am? Did you think me beyond the age of engaging in such youthful foibles? I might be in my dotage, but I am still a man."

"You're jealous, of me." This time Victoria crooned it, delighted at her discovery. "All these years, when I have been tormented by jealousy of you, of all those women in your past who never seem to _stay_ in your past, you've lectured me on how unnecessary and uncomfortable such feelings are."

Melbourne smirked once more. "Touché," he said softly.

He was still struggling with the fastener on his monogrammed cufflink and Victoria reached for it, performing the task with neat efficiency. She lifted his hand to remove the second and laid them both on his chest of drawers.

"You were never jealous of Lord Cameron, even when –" Victoria paused, perversely wanting to provoke him further, unwilling to go too far. There was something thrilling about her Lord M suddenly teetering on the edge of losing his habitual restraint, but she did not want to wound him or cause a real rift.

"I was jealous of Lord Cameron and would not have been nearly as understanding if I thought you were attracted to him. But I think Devonshire is more to your taste, isn't he?"

"The Duke of Devonshire? William Cavendish?" Victoria exclaimed in mock protest, deliberately toying with him.

Of course, it was very amusing to flirt with Devonshire – he was _like_ her William, cast in the same mold, and it aroused such womanly feelings to know he found her attractive. And then there was the matter of Caro – if she could never be first with her own husband because Caro came along so much sooner and had all his _firsts_ , then knowing another of her admirers found Victoria desirable was some consolation.

"Cavendish," Melbourne stated flatly, staring at Victoria with such a cold unyielding expression she felt pinned to the spot. "You have much to learn, Victoria." She thought then that they would argue, have one of those extremely rare exchanges of harsh words which could disturb her peace for days.

"Go to bed," he said suddenly, turning away.

"You do not dismiss _me,_ William Lamb," Victoria snapped back, tossing her hair over her shoulder and squaring her shoulders as if for battle.

"I do not want your company tonight, ma'am, and there are some things you cannot command."

Victoria flushed and inhaled sharply, taking his meaning. "How _dare_ you? If I am not to your standards, then perhaps it's a good thing if Devonshire finds me to his. You are right, I have much to learn. I'm sure the Duke would be a willing teacher."

Melbourne froze in place. Victoria held her breath, wondering what he would do next. She could not bear icy remoteness and being shut out, even if the alternative was –

He reached her in a single step, moving with silent feline grace, and took hold of both her wrists in one hand, pulling them behind her. With his other hand he lifted her chin with no tenderness, looking into her face.

"Curious, are we?" he growled, no longer either icy or remote, but rather very much present and entirely focused on her. "Be careful what you wish for, Victoria."

 


	8. Chapter 8

_Maharani Jind Kaur_

He walked her backwards, so close Victoria could feel his chest rise and fall against her bosom. Melbourne's face was stern, a dark mask of intensity that was something like anger yet not. She wanted to be outraged, to demand that he release her instantly and make amends for his rejection but something – not fear, never fear – stayed her protest. Victoria knew she had nothing to fear from her husband except the loss of him. She sensed he was on the verge of losing control and the prospect was exciting. _Now he thinks of nothing and no one but me_ , was her last coherent thought before feeling swept her away.

He did not take her to her own bedchamber, to the bed they shared, but to his own seldom-used space. When they were nearly there he stopped and pressed her against the wall, grinding himself into her harshly. He was hard, and it hurt, but not nearly as much as it maddened her that she could not feel him where she needed to. Victoria arched her back, moved her hips, but it was no good, she was simply too short, their heights too disparate. Suddenly she felt on fire down there, desperate for his touch and she reached for his buttons.

He shifted and held himself just out of reach, laughing once more in that harsh humorless way.

"What is it you want? Lessons from Devonshire? I think not, madam. You'll learn all you need from me and only me."

Still gripping her wrists and pressing her against the unyielding wall, his fingers found her and gratified her, two pushing in and his thumb rubbing hard circles. Victoria felt herself grow limp, all her attention on the spiraling increase of frantic buzzing sensation. One hooked finger found that place within which stimulated almost unbearable waves of increasing tension. Just when she thought she would tip over the precipice he withdrew his hand.

Victoria surged towards him, her body demanding release. "Please…don't stop now…" she moaned, gripping his shoulders to raise herself in alignment with him. Then she whispered what she would do with and for him, what she would allow him to do to her, quoting passages in French.

As suddenly as that dark fury came, it faded. Melbourne lowered her hands and studied her face carefully. Her own anger rose again, fueled by frustrated need. Then he abruptly picked her up and threw her onto the bed none too gently.

"Yes, ma'am," he said agreeably, despite his own rapid breath. He stood and methodically unbuttoned his shirt, rolling back the cuffs, then took off his boots and stockings. Slowly, tauntingly she thought, he unbuttoned his breeches and lowered them past his hips. Victoria rolled her hips, her eyes fixed on him. So large, larger than normal, she thought, dark with tumescence. For a moment she stilled, doubt flickering through her mind. _Can I really take all that within me?_ But she knew she could and would, and that it was life itself he gave her. She was quivering with anticipation and uncertainty and fear, not of him but of the unknown.

The rest of the night passed in an ecstatic delirium, a vortex of color and sensation so intense that Victoria would be unable to separate it all into any coherent memory. It was as though her beloved husband had been replaced by a stranger, one who had a tantalizing aura of mystery about him, who was domineering yet elicited sensations so powerfully, addictively potent that she would not have imagined it was possible to reach such heights. He made love to her with his mouth and his hands, bringing her to a peak once, twice, thrice, until finally he took her with that magnificent fullness and she quivered with an orgasm that seemed to suffuse her entire body. 

He collapsed beside her, spent, dragging in great lungfuls of air. Victoria rolled over, pressing herself against his long lean flanks, needing to prolong their connection in whatever way she could. When his breathing had stilled Melbourne turned onto his side and brushed the hair back from her face, still damp from exertion.

He spoke in a low rasping tone while he stroked her hair. "We have no need for books, my little love, nor for experimentation with paddles and canes. What I have with you is perfection. Anything else is the province of those who are bored, restless, dissatisfied…or lonely. I am none of those, and you – _you –"_ his voice trembled on the word. "- are perfect. Do not ever think you need to go against your own inclinations to please another, not even me. What we have is natural and real and needs nothing artificial."

"Only you, Victoria. Only you can do this for me. You are mine, and I am yours. As it was always meant to be."

**

Melbourne had lain beside her, listening to her breath, until the birds were chirping outside to herald the start of a new day. Then he rose and dressed silently and lifted her in his arms to carry her to her own bed.

She had given him her heart, her open, trusting, virginal heart. She had given him her body, and from that union borne him children. What reason did he have to want for more? And yet…he did. Not in the way she might imagine, to be found in the beds of other women. No, what he sought he would find in the world.

His race was not yet run, of that he felt certain. Victoria was life itself to him, but she could not – should not – be his entire _raison de vivre_ any more than he could be hers. They were equal partners in the adventure of living. And she, darling precious Victoria, must understand that wanting more, needing some purpose, some occupation, did not imply boredom with or rejection of her. Melbourne knew she would always be constrained by the effects of her unnatural upbringing. As he helped her grow strong and break free of those old bonds, he would help her accept that the love and devotion, the bond between them was steadfast, not so impermanent that it ceased to exist when she lost sight of him.

Melbourne gave orders that Her Majesty was not to be disturbed, using as an excuse their late return from the Grosvenor House ball. She had Peel coming at four, and Cameron coming to take his leave at noon.

Billy Cameron was only briefly disappointed to see that Melbourne greeted him unaccompanied.

"Her Majesty hopes to join us later," he explained.

"Dancing until dawn, eh?" Billy Cameron grinned. "Well, good for her."

They talked briefly about continuation of the security measures set in place, and the likelihood of the new government insisting on the appointment of a replacement overseer.

"Neither a political appointee, nor a military man, if he's cut of the usual cloth," Cameron said, repeating the advice he'd given previously.

"If I can assure it, I will. My intent is that the post remains open until you return. We have no doubt you will."

"If the Maharini's forces don't have my head on a post outside the fort in a month."

Melbourne shook his head resolutely. "Her Majesty forbids that from happening. If Lady Kaur hopes to make terms, she will be well advised to honor the envoys we are sending. Without a diplomatic solution there can only be all out war and we will annihilate them."

"I'll tell her you said so, sir," Cameron drawled, grinning. He leaned back and stretched out his long legs. "If I may ask, why are you so determined I come back? To the Palace, I mean? I'm not the only man who can keep your family safe – in fact, compared to those I'm leaving behind, I've done little in the past few years and spend most of my time drinking good Irish whiskey on South Street."

Melbourne waved his hand dismissively. "You've put good people in place and I'd be the last to denigrate them, but it's you we trust in the end."

"Why?" Cameron's expression was frankly curious.

"Because you're devoted to Her Majesty, and because – frankly – there's no one else quite like you. You have no interest in playing politics and stay away from all the factions." Melbourne shrugged, content to leave it at that.

"'Devoted to Her Majesty'?" Cameron scoffed. "Do you know how many men _died_ last year alone, in Syria, in Afghanistan, in a hundred small scale skirmishes in the Punjab, because they were devoted to the Queen? Men who die clutching her image in their hands, her name on their lips? Those are the men you should call 'devoted to Her Majesty.' Me, I hang about and get in the way and generally annoy the shite out of you."

Melbourne picked up a decanter of amber liquor and waved it in Cameron's direction.

"A drink, Cameron?" He poured two glasses and handed one over, raising the second in a toast.

"To your safe return and the success of your mission," Melbourne said, drinking.

"I'm not sure what the actuaries say, but I suspect you have a greater life expectancy even in the midst of the Dogras than I do in Buckingham House," he said slowly, looking at Cameron over the rim of that glass. "While I fully intend to be here to toast your return, I want your word that if anything unfortunate catches up to me, you'll return immediately. The Queen will need you at her side."

"You look pretty healthy to me, sir. And the Queen is surrounded by people. You can't swing a cat without hitting an uncle here, a cousin there, her ministers and advisers."

"All of whom will have an agenda of their own, and a vested interest in becoming the next – what does your maharini call hers? a vizier? Well, you get the point. The Queen will need _you_ , someone who is not overawed by her crown and can help her remember who she is. And the children–" Melbourne's voice broke. "The children will need someone to ensure they can continue to _be_ children, as long as possible. Someone to not merely keep my son safe but make him feel safe, who will bring him a broken-down pony and teach him to ride. Someone to watch over my daughter, give her strong shoulders to ride on and let her climb trees. Someone who will ensure all her best qualities, that confidence and bravery, are not extinguished."

Cameron tossed off the brandy in his glass in a single gulp and tossed back his long hair.

"You look pretty healthy to me," he repeated. "But you have my word I'll return. If I hear you've run off to America with an actress or dancer."

A footman opened the door wide and announced the Queen's arrival. Both he and Cameron hastened to rise, and Victoria waved them back down. She smiled fondly at their soon-to-depart Army officer and went to her husband's side.

"Has William been entertaining you in my absence? I apologize for the delay." She sat on the arm of Melbourne's chair, resting her hand casually on the back of his neck to keep her balance.

Cameron repeated the details of his departure with Hardinge's party, and the length of time they would spend traveling by land and sea. Victoria peppered him with questions pertaining to the mission he would be a part of, providing escort and protection for the diplomatic envoy who would attempt to negotiate a satisfactory agreement to disarm the various competing factions disrupting peace in the Punjab. Cameron would meet Broadfoot, the political agent, in Firozpur, where the East India Company had established a cantonment, and from there travel to a mutually agreed upon neutral zone.

At precisely one o'clock, an hour after he arrived, Cameron rose to take his leave. He bowed deeply to Melbourne, in defiance of his usual informality, and dropped to one knee to kiss Victoria's hand.

"Go with God, Captain Cameron, and return to us safely. In the meantime, William and I will look for your letters on a frequent basis. I want to see that part of the world through your eyes, and especially the Maharini and her son. If you have the opportunity, pray convey to her my greetings and tell her we have much in common."

Cameron departed, and Melbourne and Victoria were left alone in the office where he had been received.

Melbourne saw the softness in her eyes, the almost luxuriant sheen illuminating her features. She glowed with voluptuousness.

"I slept well. I hope you got some rest?" She turned her face up to his and now Melbourne saw her eyes were dancing with joy. "You certainly deserve it." She toyed with a stray thread on his embroidered waistcoat. "Never have I imagined such a night. It is always my joy and delight to be with you, but last night was…extraordinary. I don't know whether I could survive such nights with any frequency and still have the strength to do my duty."

"Victoria, I –" he fumbled for the right words, but they eluded him. "My love, my life. You are my everything. And you are mine. _All mine_."

She rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat and Melbourne thought she looked like a playful, affectionate kitten, so small, so exquisitely made, so precious. And so mighty.

"I adore you, William Lamb," she purred.

"Mrs. Melbourne," he answered, his voice full of wonder at the miracle of it all, even as a part of his mind traveled with Billy Cameron, to faraway shores and the mysterious rebel queen of the Khalsa.

 

* * *

 

**Maharani Jind Kaur (Punjabi: 1817 – 1 August 1863) was regent of the Sikh Empire from 1843 until 1846. She was the youngest wife of the first Maharaja of the Sikh Empire, Ranjit Singh, and the mother of the last Maharaja, Duleep Singh. She was renowned for her beauty, energy and strength of purpose and was popularly known as Rani Jindan, but her fame is derived chiefly from the fear she engendered in the British in India, who described her as "the Messalina of the Punjab", a seductress too rebellious to be controlled.**

**After the assassinations of Ranjit Singh's first three successors, Duleep Singh came to power in September 1843 at the age of 5 and Jind Kaur became Regent on her son's behalf. After the Sikhs lost the First Anglo-Sikh War she was replaced in December 1846 by a Council of Regency, under the control of a British Resident. However, her power and influence continued and, to counter this, the British imprisoned and exiled her. Over thirteen years passed before she was again permitted to see her son, who was taken to England.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you will be disappointed, but in the end I had to listen to William's voice in my head and be true to the man I understand him to be.


	9. Chapter 9

Rain had been falling for days. The first days of October in 1845 were wet and unseasonably chill throughout the Isle. The glorious bright colors of autumn washed away. Needle-sharp fine drops driven near horizontal by powerful winds sent torrents of water overrunning the drainage ditches and the Thames overflowed its banks, spreading a foul odor throughout the city. The problem had been mounting for some years, with an ageing and inadequate sewer system that emptied directly into the Thames.

All exterior work at the Great Build came to a standstill for those days and as many after as it took for the boggy reclaimed acreage to drain and the acres of clay mud to dry. Ironically, on the day Lord Melbourne visited, the only dry ground was that built on great piles directly over riverbed.

Inside, despite the damp, men scurried about, intent on their tasks, but these were artisans, comparatively well-paid craftsmen installing the fixtures and journeymen artists filling in the great outlined murals in the new House of Lords.

Melbourne had taken Prince William with him on that visit and despite the inclement weather without, father and son had passed an enjoyable day in the company of George Von Wettin, touring each great chamber and examining in detail the fine carvings and reclaimed, refurbished fittings from the old Palace of Westminster.

The little Prince, nearly five, had a boy's fascination with machinery and watched attentively, his sandy brows furrowed, the steam-driven device propelling great blocks of marble and statuary skyward, where they were guided into position on their pedestals. The pulley system was patiently explained in terms the child understood by Mr. Von Wettin, and when that gentleman wistfully commented on how proud the late Prince would be the child showed early signs of sharing his interests, Melbourne only smiled agreeably. The polite fiction of Liam's paternity was to be maintained, even in private conversation between the two men best situated to know the truth.

The Spirit of Justice, artist Daniel Maclise's design, was displayed on canvas in the new Palace of Westminster. Melbourne paused to stare at the striking dark-haired woman in Grecian robes, holding her torch aloft – _The Spirit of Justice_ , aptly named, was Caroline Norton. Only when Liam pointed and asked who the lady was, did Melbourne move away. He only half-listened as Von Wettin explained what the fresco was meant to depict.

On another long, dreary afternoon when the ladies-in-waiting, the equerries and even the children were restive, and a generally despondent humor threatened to overtake the household in reflection of the leaden skies and cold damp Melbourne organized relay races in the wide corridor. The Queen joined in, teaming with two gentlemen in waiting, a nursery maid and the Prince of Wales, competing against Melbourne, Charlotte Canning, Sarah Lyttleton and Princess Elizabeth. The Queen's mother and Emma Portman, each determined to retain their dignity, found themselves recruited to captain the respective teams and Baroness Lehzen was made the final arbiter at the finish line.

The races were run with a handkerchief and Melbourne's blue silk neckcloth as designated tokens to transfer between one racer and another, and the great halls were filled with loud whoops and much laughter. Victoria raced her daughter on the last round, and Melbourne his son. The little princess executed a daring maneuver by which she slid bodily over the finish line, her sateen gown gliding across polished marble to cries of 'cheat' and 'no fair', and Melbourne lost to his son by a metre. Victoria threw herself into his arms and he spun her around laughing, joining in the general air of merriment, even the Baroness Lehzen smiling on their show of affection.

On another evening, when the rain fell in a steady, grudging cadence, Melbourne had ventured out to dine at the Reform Club with his brother-in-law, Viscount Palmerston, and several of their cronies. They had a good dinner and cracked a fourth bottle, and the conversation was enlivening, each of the men present accustomed to engaging in wide-ranging debate, quoting authors as diverse as St. Paul and Mary Eleanor Bowes, Countess of Strathmore and Kinghorn. But to subtle digs, from Uxbridge, and raucous ribbing, from Palmerston, Melbourne had taken himself off well before midnight, only because he suddenly yearned for the company of his own wife.

The streets were empty even of pickpockets and vagrants and Melbourne was struck by the eerie desolation of his city. The gin shops were filled, light showing beneath poorly fitted doors, and here and there a constable stood huddled under some shop awning, but the general impression was of a post-apocalyptic landscape. Shivering under his turned-up collar, Melbourne watched longingly out the window until he saw the great glowing mass of Buckingham House take shape out of the foggy landscape. Only then did he sit back with a sigh, relieved.

The corridors in the family wing were nearly empty. When he looked in on the Queen's drawing room, the small private one used when no guests were on hand, he saw it was deserted. Further on, in their own apartment, there was a light glowing in Victoria's bedchamber.

The dogs leapt up, barking a greeting, when he strode in. Beads of moisture still clung to Melbourne's shoulders and hair. He had been in too much of a hurry to see his wife, to pause and make himself presentable.

She was laying on her stomach, chin propped on one hand, writing in her journal. Victoria had kept a journal in which she diligently wrote at day's end for as long as Melbourne had known her. She had told him once she began writing an account of her days at thirteen, shortly after being named Heir Apparent.

Now she looked up at him, her face scrubbed clean and glowing with rosy good health. Melbourne's heart swelled as it so often did when reminded anew of his startling fortune.

"Darling! Is it raining again?" she asked, laying her pen aside and rolling over so that she looked at him upside-down, in much the same pose as their daughter might assume. She wore a voluminous snowy white gown with lace collar and cuffs, and her long hair was loose around her.

"Still," he said. "It is raining still. You are warm and dry. Excuse me my haste in joining you. I will get out of these damp things."

Victoria reached out a hand lazily, stretching her arm over her head to catch at his coat, and pulled. Melbourne allowed himself to be drawn forward enough so that he could bend and kiss her lips. Then he shook his head, much as Dash might do when coming in out of the rain, so that moisture flew from his damp curls and landed on her skin. Victoria shrieked playfully and rolled away. Melbourne removed himself from her presence and dispatched his day clothing without waiting for the services of his valet, eager to return to the warmth of her presence, the glow which emanated from Victoria like his sun.

"I was looking over my old journals," she said when he'd returned, comfortable in his worn paisley dressing gown. Even something so simple and lacking import as that, entering Queen Victoria's bedroom in robe and old worn leather slippers, never entirely grew old. It was a dream within a dream and he could never take it for granted.

She moved over to make room and he lay beside her, their feet at the headboard.

A stack of the small leather-bound books was beside her on the bed. Not all, or nearly all, he thought, only a dozen or so.

"Do you keep a journal?" She asked.

"I should, certainly, but I'm too lazy by far. I began writing in my commonplace book many times and lose interest after a day or a month. The only time I kept up with it for any length of time was the winter I spent in seclusion at Melbourne Hall, many years ago."

"Lehzen provided me my first journal when I was thirteen. She read everything I wrote, every night before I went to bed, for years. She continued to do so until – well, until long after I came to the throne. Can you imagine –" Victoria rolled onto her side and looked up dreamily. "-someday, years – even hundreds of years in the future – people, scholars and students and, well, perhaps every literate person – will read the things I've written? So Lehzen says. She believes everything about me will interest those who study statecraft."

"Perhaps she is correct. You will be a great Queen, my love, and everything you say and do will be studied."

"I?" Her voice was incredulous. "I am determined to be good, and to do my duty faithfully, but I don't know what I will do that will interest people far in the future. What do you think the world will be like two hundred years from now?"

"I am the wrong man to ask, sweetheart. I belong to the last century, not this one, so I cannot conceive of a world that far in the future. But if you ask me, what will _people_ be like, I would answer you, no different than they are now. Human nature doesn't change. People stay constant." He was stroking her long hair as he spoke, just as she stroked Dash's long silky ears. Dash, in fact, was beside her on one side and the little German sausage dog had burrowed under the covers beside Melbourne.

"What did you think of me when we first met? What was your first impression?" Victoria's blue eyes were impish and playful, but he sensed a seriousness behind the question.

Melbourne thought carefully, wanting to recall that moment with perfect clarity. He remembered riding to Kensington that morning, recalled clearly that the park was alive with curious townspeople eager to catch a glimpse of their new ruler. He had seen glimpses of the princess in the years before, but only rare glimpses, because the Duchess and Conroy kept her away from Court and the nefarious influences they feared might corrupt her – or so they said. It was well known, from the time her mother sent that patently ridiculous false claim that her daughter wanted a Regency, that the Duchess and her adviser would usurp authority if they could. And King William loathed his sister-in-law.

Melbourne himself had no firm preconception, although if he'd prepared for anything, it was to be greeted by the Duchess and John Conroy, with the girl an insignificant presence, a figurehead.

Instead…he had walked into the chamber and met _her_.

"My very first impression was how _new_ you were, how fresh and pure and precious. I am a cynic, ma'am, as you know. I believe in little, not religion nor moral precepts. I believe in a monarchy, because it provides a continuity the country needs, a national identity that forges some common purpose from the clatter and noise of representative democracy. But…" he laughed, a hearty laugh that shook his shoulders. "when I saw you, I understood why knights in old tales swore fealty to a sovereign." He shrugged. "Fanciful, I know. I can say it no better. Reverence? Awe? A feeling that I was in the presence of some supernatural force?"

Victoria's dark brows furrowed. Not what a young woman wanted to hear, he supposed, from her husband of their first meeting. But he did not lie to her, ever.

"You recovered yourself quickly, if that was the case." Her lips twisted into a charming little smile, remembering. "You knelt and kissed my hand and I saw Prince Charming. I saw the most beautiful creature, male or female, I had ever imagined. But then –"

"But then you remembered yourself and your natural authority took over?" Melbourne asked He laid his head in her lap, and Victoria's soft fingers began toying with his hair, winding curls, lightly making circles against his scalp.

"Something like that. When I'm most…discomposed, is when I am most stiff and regal. You know that. But continue please. After…after you saw that I was only a girl, not a supernatural being –" Victoria giggled. "-what was your next thought?"

"I kissed your hand, and I rose and met your eyes and…" Melbourne's voice grew dreamy and distant. "I recognized you. I had been looking for you my entire life, and I'd finally found you."

Victoria did not speak. When Melbourne opened his eyes and looked up at her, she was still, her face softened by reverie.

"It was like that for me too," she said finally. Then, "Do you wonder what I wrote about you? I fear you'll be disappointed by the content, but perhaps not by the _quantity_. Your name is on every page. Every single page. I've only gotten through that first year, and your name is on every single page. It's a wonder Lehzen didn't conclude that…well, that my feelings for you were far stronger than anything one might feel for a minister, or a teacher, or a private secretary."

"What did you write? Did you say that I was – what did you say? 'The most beautiful creature'? Surely that's not precisely what you thought but I do appreciate the sound of it." Melbourne caught her hand and laid a kiss on her wrist, then released it so she could go back to stroking his hair, the most delightful of sensations.

"Of course not! Lehzen read my journal entries every night, and I was writing for – for what she calls 'posterity'. But everything you said, every appearance you made, what you wore, what you ate...when you fell asleep in my drawing room…" she giggled, a delicate silvery sound, and held her hand in front of her mouth self-consciously while she did so. Then she grew quiet.

"I knew I loved you and would never love anyone else. I didn't have the words for it, and when I began to know what it was I felt I was afraid to allow myself to even imagine… _this_. I thought you could never see me that way. I knew I was not good enough for a man like you. Not beautiful, accomplished, sophisticated. And if I didn't know, Mama certainly told me plainly."

"Your mother?" Melbourne half sat up, propping himself on one elbow. "What did she have to say to it?"

"Of course, she told me you were disreputable and would steal my heart if I let you. But she understood how I felt and that was a perverse comfort of sorts. But then she told me with great kindness and pity, that I must know a man like you, accomplished, charming, a man of the world, had many women to choose from and would never feel _romantically_ towards a plain, simple girl like me. She meant it as a kindness."

"I won't speak ill of your mother, but she was always a foolish woman and I'm not altogether sorry my opinion got back to her. Perhaps it was offensive to her, that a man might think of her daughter and not herself in a romantic way. But make no mistake, ma'am – I began to suspect my feelings were something far different than they should be, very early in our acquaintance."

Melbourne sat up and swung his legs off the bed, then extended his hand to his Queen. "Shall I put those on your dresser? You don't intend to read yourself to sleep, do you? I am selfish enough to want your undivided attention."

Victoria shuffled together the small volumes and laid them in his hands, then crawled up to the head of the bed. When Melbourne turned back she was pushing her feet under the covers already, and he dropped his robe on a chair beside the bed.

This was the time of day he looked forward to most, not only for the corporeal pleasures of the bedchamber, but for the simple, homely contentment of being in a room with his wife, behind a closed door that kept the world at bay. Here, it was the two of them, partners in the great adventure of marriage and a shared life. Some evenings he would already be waiting when she came in surrounded by her dresser and lady's maids and would loll on the bed watching as her court dress was removed and hung away, her jewels safely stored in their leather cases and her hair unbound. Her maids were good girls, long in service to Her Majesty, and the presence of the Queen's husband went unremarked. He and Victoria would converse lightly while they went about their duties, and then sometimes he would relieve her dresser of the hairbrush and take on that task himself, dismissing the servants. Victoria would sit between his legs and he would draw the brush gently, with great care, through her hair, smoothing out the tangles and bringing a lustrous shine with his long slow strokes.

This was the time of day they would discuss family matters, whether Liam was old enough and resilient enough for a male tutor to begin more rigorous academic lessons, whether the nursery maids were too lenient with Lily, the governesses too harsh. They would share news of Victoria's many cousins, of Melbourne's nieces and nephews. Even the dogs might come up in this late, cozy conversation, which one had been permitted to run unsupervised on a priceless oriental rug in the Throne Room, whether dear Dashy showed signs of his advanced age in canine years.

"I had a chance to bring up with Henry the particulars of that speech," Melbourne said, as Victoria curled up against him with a small sigh of pleasure. She laid her cheek against his chest and laid her palm flat against his midsection, her fingers twining themselves in the strings of his nightshirt.

Victoria did not ask which speech; that last, delivered on the 9th of August, was on everyone's tongue. Russell had been called to form a government, to no one's surprise and Palmerston's unspoken chagrin. He would have the Foreign Office again; it would be that or nothing.

"And does he know it could be nothing?" Victoria asked drily. "Or is that outside the realm of possibility, in his view?"

"The purpose of that speech was of course to declare his intentions, and the policy he will pursue above all others, that he will be immune from influence from the Crown. He moved that an address be presented to Your Majesty for copies or extracts of correspondence relative to the affairs of Syria, in continuation of those already presented to the House. And by 'address' he means –" Melbourne paused, looking to Victoria for the answer she had ready.

"Demand, of course," Victoria said promptly, pursing her lips in distaste. "There was no need, nor was the timing rational since the government was on its way out. He was challenging _me_."

"No, my love," Melbourne corrected. "He was putting the Whigs on notice that he intends to fight the good fight, for independence from any Crown oversight – although he would call it interference – and the Tories that he was preemptive in usurping Peel's authority. You will have your hands full the next five years, and more than that when his time finally comes to form your government."

"I'm glad Russell will have the job of controlling Lord Palmerston's headstrong nature. I am quite fond of him as a brother-in-law, but dread dealing with him as my minister. So, you are welcomed back in the fold?"

"I wouldn't say that, but now matters are settled I am no longer persona non-grata at my own club." Melbourne shifted his position, sliding further down against the pillows and wrapping both arms around Victoria, already drowsy from her warmth under the coverlet and the cozy amber glow of lamplight against the dark, stormy night beyond their windows.

"Oh…Dickens was there. He intends to start publication as soon as the new session begins. He will structure his serial pieces as profiles of each minister and senior member of both Houses. Focusing of course on those who play the most prominent parts in the Rothschilds' web of influence. Shall we have him to dine? We can invite others in the arts, so that his appearance is not particularly notable."

"Mmm," Victoria signified agreement with a small sound, her lips muzzled by contact with the fabric of his nightshirt. "We can invite some theatre people. Miss Fanny Kemble has returned from America and is again on stage. You told me once you know her?"

"I did, or at least I have made her acquaintance. She is well known here and was a friend of Georgiana Sheridan and her sisters. That is where I met her."

"Well, you can meet her at _your_ home this time. We can also invite –" and Victoria began naming notable playwrights, a new opera singer from Sweden and a Parisienne ballet dancer. Melbourne laughingly vetoed the last, as the mistress of her uncle Leopold, but otherwise formed no objection to those she proposed.

They talked a while longer, in whispers now, as Melbourne turned down the bedside lamp so that only moonlight half-concealed by cloud cover illuminated their space. Then he turned onto his side and Victoria curled herself around him, twining her legs between his so her cold feet could draw warmth. Just before he let sleep claim him, Melbourne pressed a kiss against her temple.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Melbourne."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Victoria moved her horse away from the mounting block. A watery sun overhead sparkled off innumerable puddles dotting the path they would ride. The animal was as restless as she, with pent up energy to spend from long days of confinement indoors. At least, she thought, the horses had an exercise ring in the stable and the dogs milling found their exercise chasing one another and the children up and down the endless corridors. She felt as though she could dismount and run beside them, only to shake off the lethargy.

William was late. They had agreed to ride at two o'clock, and Victoria had arrived at one fifty-five, expecting to see him have their mounts saddled and waiting. Instead it was she who gave the orders, watching the grooms attach the girth to the girth straps on the off side, then bring it up to the near side. She saw a gap between the elbow and the girth on Lord Melbourne's horse and pointed it out, shooed the dogs away lest a hoof come down and cause them injury, and finally mounted, walking back and forth in the stable yard.

When he finally arrived, it was immediately apparent what had caused his delay. Lord Melbourne, casually attired in riding boots and shooting trousers under a green coat, was not alone. Princess Elizabeth pranced along beside him, sporting what appeared to be her brother's outgrown clothing, and a wide grin that her mother instantly recognized as victorious.

"I'm coming with you," she announced defiantly. "Papa says so."

Melbourne met Victoria's eyes, his own intending to convey helplessness in the face of such overwhelming force but actually dancing with amusement. Victoria sighed, not well pleased and knowing it was a battle she would lose, should she choose to engage.

"I will tell a groom to saddle Flora and lead her along the short path. Elizabeth, you may ride your brother's pony, the one King Victor Emmanuel gave him."

Elizabeth appeared to consider the offer, before shaking her head so emphatically the ends of her dark hair flew, and her bonnet strings gave up their tenuous grip. "No, thank you, Mother. I will ride with Papa today."

She stretched out her arms, demanding to be picked up and put in the saddle but Melbourne determinedly shook his head.

"You will ride with your mother if you ride with us. Victoria?"

He met and held her gaze, then glanced down at his left arm.

"It works well enough when you hold me," she murmured, so that the child would not hear.

"It works well enough to hold my wife," Melbourne said agreeably, "and always will. Horizontally, when she is in no danger of falling. I do not trust it to hold my daughter in the saddle." He swung the child up onto Victoria's own side saddle before either mother or child could protest further, then swiftly swung his leg up and over his own horse.

Victoria, already irked at the constraint of town propriety after the freedom of riding astride at Brocket Hall, merely settled the little girl and took up the reins in her right hand, putting her left around Elizabeth's midsection.

"I hoped to canter," Victoria said. "I thought I might scream if the weather hadn't cleared enough to allow us outdoors today. I am so sick of being indoors!"

The trees were halfway bare, although it was only early October. What leaves remained were a dull yellow rather than the brilliant oranges and scarlets of a normal autumn. Still, the air was fresh and mild, and Victoria felt better simply for being beyond walls.

"Let's trot," she said gaily, encouraging her own horse forward. Melbourne easily stayed abreast and the speed and motion exhilarated Lily enough that she ceased talking and threw out her arms gleefully.

Victoria felt a surge of real affection for her turbulent, headstrong younger child. She remembered being nearly as young as Lily was, could recall the pets they had, and a few isolated images came to her, but before Lehzen nothing much had occurred to make a real impression. She did know she had never had most of what this child did, certainly no adoring father to lavish her with affection and grant her every whim, no brother, no cousins with whom she could romp and play regularly. And certainly, no freedom, not the freedom this child had. Victoria's health and well-being had been guarded zealously, her young mind enriched, but she recalled little exuberant free play, and none of the roughhousing, rampaging activity that propelled this little one.

Lily had a natural seat, and instinctively made herself one with the animal's motion so Victoria felt confident in giving her horse the freedom to increase his pace. She felt her own hat slip back and her hair escape its pins as a brisk headwind met them. When they'd rounded the path encircling the grounds of Buckingham House she regretfully drew back to a more sedate trot, feeling her cheeks reddened and the humidity having its effect on her hair.

"Miss Skerrett will have her work cut out for her. I look a fright." Victoria laughingly looked over her shoulder at her husband and saw Lily follow suit, even emulating her flirtatious expression.

"My beautiful girls!" Melbourne exclaimed, pulling up beside her so their horses walked in tandem, the animals' flanks nearly touching. "I am going to rest when we return, so that I might stay awake tonight."

"We will be in the ballroom, not the drawing room, so you will find no place to doze," Victoria reassured him, smiling fondly. Lord M's predilection for dozing off and even snoring beside her had once annoyed her and was now, years later, one of his many endearing habits.

"Is that a bet, ma'am?" His green eyes twinkled merrily.

"You will waltz with me, sir. And remain at my side as much as you dare without earning me the reputation of a possessive shrew."

"You, ma'am? Never!" The dogs, seeing they were re-entering the stable yard, reappeared from the bushes where they had been pursuing their own amusement and both Victoria and Melbourne groaned at the sight of mud-spotted wet fur thick with briars.

"I will send for a footman to bathe them. I don't have time and they dare not enter the palace in that condition."

"I'll help! I want to give the dogs a bath!" Lily, having ridden docilely enough, began to squirm, arching her back in a determined effort to slide the five feet to the ground unaided. Victoria's grip failed, and an approaching groom just managed to accelerate his pace enough to catch his princess mid-air and deliver her safely.

Victoria likewise slid down without waiting for a block and landed neatly in her husband's arms. She could have done so unaided but enjoyed the conceit of being a frail damsel dependent on her husband's aid. When she turned her face up his beautiful mouth tightened in a complicit smile, acknowledging the flirtatious charade.

Victoria and Melbourne left their daughter, and their various dogs, in the care of a groom and walked hand-in-hand back to the Palace.

Once inside, they made their way carefully between servants rushing to and fro, porters bearing cases of wine and champagne, footmen moving furniture under the direction of a steward, housemaids bustling about on nameless errands and one of the gentlemen of the Consort's Household shrilly directing the precise placement of great pots of bronze and wine-colored chrysanthemums around the perimeter of the ballroom.

"I will change out of my riding habit. I am quite mud-spattered after all," Victoria said quietly to Melbourne before turning to make her excuses to the half-dozen people begging her attention. "And then I must return to pretend to oversee the final arrangements for tonight. They have it all under control, of course. The menu, the wines, the decorations were all chosen and ordered weeks ago."

"But you must be there to nod wisely, to praise and commiserate," Melbourne agreed. He tucked her hand in his arm and led her up the stairs.

**

An even one hundred guests had dined at the Queen's table in Buckingham House. Those honored included the newest members of Parliament, only just sworn, Lord John Russell and the members of his cabinet – all of them friends, and most former ministers, of Lord Melbourne – and a sprinkling of authors, artists and royal relatives. Princess Augusta of Cambridge was there with her husband of scarcely two years, the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Her parents were also in attendance and the presence of Prince Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, meant that he and not Melbourne led Victoria in to dinner. That her own husband was relegated to the rear, to lead in Lady Portman as he had before their marriage, no longer rankled, because it meant that her uncle likewise held the seat of honor opposite the Queen at the far end of the ninety-foot table and Melbourne could sit at her left hand.

Victoria was satisfied when she looked in before her guests arrived, at the arrangement of the dining hall. She had decided few of the particulars, but Lady Sutherland had executed her wishes with perfect elegance. Victoria had said only that, since the wet weather had deprived them of glorious fall color she wanted the Palace ablaze with autumn shades of amber, bronze and burgundy.

The Queen's gown was a rich chocolate-brown confection, daringly low cut and baring both her shoulders. The neckline was edged with gold lace and the soft folds of material subtly embellished with leaf patterns worked in fine scarlet and gold thread. She chose the emerald tiara Albert and his companion had designed for her, a breathtaking filigree design affirming Lord M's generous opinion that no one had better taste or artistic sensibility than men of Albert's persuasion.

Melbourne's cravat fastened with a large square emerald pin, a mate to the one on his right ring finger. Victoria respected his aversion to any appearance that he might profit from his unique relationship to the monarchy, and it was only Albert's unabashed pleasure in the giving which cajoled him into accepting a gift as magnificent as the emeralds. The gifts had nominally been for Melbourne's birthday, in March of 1840, but all involved understood they were meant to mark the beginning of…what had transpired, with the conspiratorial collaboration of the Queen, her husband and his beloved companion.

Victoria had opened the ball with her cousin rather than her husband, by Melbourne's own request. Victoria knew that he never entirely trusted his left foot and leg. He had recovered almost completely from his apoplectic strokes, but a residual slight weakness gave that foot a tendency to drag, imperceptible but just enough to occasionally throw him off-balance. To open a ball before fifty couples was a test Victoria was happy to spare him.

Prince George, now Major-General Cambridge, waltzed with great energy and little charm but Victoria found him an agreeable enough partner. He served on the general staff of the United States of the Ionian Islands, and had managed, for all his vaunted patriotic fervor and militaristic interests, to avoid service in any truly arduous posts.

When their dance ended he led his cousin to the dais where an ornate seating area was situated under the fringed scarlet canopy and executed a sharp Germanic bow.

As she took her seat, Victoria looked about longingly for her husband. Now would come the sheer tedium of such State occasions, the need to address brief conversation to each of the guests who approached her. Many of these present were newly elected Members from the more obscure boroughs, leading their wives forward to bow and kiss hands with the Queen. As much as she optimistically hoped that these new faces would be enough accustomed to courtier's manners to avoid any sensational topics during such a brief encounter, fully half by her estimate broached the topic of the crop failure in Ireland. Her stock response was to offer prayers for the people and express confidence in such relief measures as her ministers proposed, but at the end of an hour her head ached and her face was stiff from displaying a pleasant, if distant, smile.

When yet another figure stepped forward to bow before her, Victoria was pleasantly surprised to see one of the more intriguing new Members. Standing beside the dark-eyed gentleman was Mr. Disraeli.

"Your Majesty, may I present Baron Lionel de Rothschild."

Victoria extended her smile to include the lady curtsying beside Mr. Disraeli and was pleased to converse for a few minutes with a gentleman she sincerely admired.

"I am honored to be presented to Your Majesty. It is especially due to your Majesty's own husband, Lord Melbourne, who pushed through the Emancipation bill, for which all your subjects should be most grateful. ' _The State is entitled to the services of every one of its subjects. It is not the privileges and advantages of individuals which they must to consider; on the contrary, the privileges of the State, the welfare of the country, and the advantage of the community, are seriously injured by those restrictions…inasmuch as it could not select that person who of all men might be best fitted to perform the duties of office. It is the power of the people which is thereby circumscribed and restricted_.'"

Victoria listened closely, recognizing Melbourne's own words, from the speech he'd in the House of Lords when she was still in the schoolroom. She was genuinely curious about this representative of the secretive, all-powerful de Rothschild banking family and wished they had longer than this all-too-brief ceremonial moment.

"Welcome to our Court, and to the service of our government," Victoria said, her tone more genuine and engaging than it had been for some while. "Lady de Rothschild, we will send you a card to call on us again. Please, enjoy yourselves."

The encounter ended and Victoria absently took a champagne flute from a tray extended to her, meanwhile greeting the next couple who approached her.

She went by rote through a courteous greeting and offered a comment on the recently inclement weather. The stout woman standing before her at the side of a diminutive spouse made some answer she did not quite catch, because a voice suddenly whispered in her ear.

"May I fuck you later, ma'am?"

A pleasant little shiver went through her, from the words, the familiar raspy voice and the warm breath on her ear.

"Oh, Lord M, nothing would please me more than that," she murmured _sotto voce_ , all the while maintaining her distantly cordial expression as the burgher's wife continued talking.

**

Victoria thought momentarily that her legs might fail her, so long had she been sitting in one position. Fortunately, Melbourne's arm was about her waist and she permitted herself to sway against him for a moment, relishing the warm strength of his lean torso against her bare shoulder. He lifted her hand and laid his palm against the small of her back, so that its warmth leeched into her skin through layers of velvet and silk.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, dimpling, gazing up at the dear handsome face towering above her.

"Did I mean what?" Melbourne asked innocently as they began moving about the floor in that smooth liquid motion so much like lovemaking when two people were in perfect harmony.

"Did you mean you wanted to fuck me later?" Victoria, watching closely, saw the quick flash of heat in his eyes. She rarely used that word – no, she _never_ used that word – and was rewarded by the effect she had.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I did. Now I especially wish to do so if you will say it again."

Victoria appeared to consider his request and her own response carefully. Then with careful, precise articulation, as though reciting Latin for a particularly scrupulous tutor, she said, "Are you asking if you _can_ fuck me, or if you _may_ fuck me?" 

Melbourne huffed a soft laugh and Victoria wished propriety, and the measures of the waltz, and her own stiff petticoats would allow her to ascertain his response more accurately.

"Oh, I am quite certain I _can_ fuck you. I am asking, most earnestly, whether I _may_ fuck you."

Victoria laughed, only because she felt she had to provide some response other than the one which she wanted to offer, which was to stop in the middle of the great ballroom and pull herself against him so that he would kiss her.

Across the room, beside a refreshment table set out in an alcove, several of the Queen's household stood with a few privileged guests observing the royal couple on the dance floor.

"What on earth do they find to laugh and talk about after years of marriage? I vow, I can find nothing to say to my husband when I return home."

"Her Majesty and Lord Melbourne discuss many weighty manners. I'm sure they are now talking about the news from Ireland. The potato blight is on everyone's mind. My husband said that –"

Lady Portman, from long acquaintance with Viscount Melbourne and on terms of friendship with both his Lordship and Her Majesty, only smiled knowingly.

* * *

 

1 Thank you, Fatima (or not; I hate having my brain hijacked:) for this dialogue I couldn't resist.

2  Et toi. Again with the ear worms. Enough already!

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

**[PSALM](https://youtu.be/f5vrMzP2NGg) - [Click for link](https://youtu.be/f5vrMzP2NGg)**

**If you haven't already, please check out the video for which this story is named, by the amazingly talented essero (song by Reign of Kindo.) Essero’s wonderful compilation of images tell their own story of love and loss in this man's life.**

* * *

 

**_Tick tock_ **

_Later, in the still quiet hours of the morning, alone with the words of the poet, Lord Melbourne would cast his mind back over each hour, certain that if he looked closely he might find something which had gone unnoticed. Instead all he heard was the ticking of a clock._

Her Majesty and Lord Melbourne had closed the ball after their final waltz. Melbourne had held her hand aloft and walked his wife proudly from the floor, while on either side ladies swept deep curtsies and lords bowed. Nobody present was so cynical they could fail to be moved, if only for a moment, at the sight of their sovereign and the former Prime Minister, so _right_ together, so deeply in love they seemed to exist in a world of their own.

Once out of the ballroom, as footmen rushed about to accommodate the sudden exodus of a hundred fine guests, hats and coats to be held, carriages to be loaded in an orderly procession, Melbourne had lifted the small hand he still held and brought it to his lips, telling her that he would join her as soon as he met briefly with Palmerston. Henry had begged a word with him in private, and Melbourne was as curious as he was, to his private chagrin, relieved and flattered in equal measure.

His brother-in-law sought reassurance that he would have Melbourne's support as Foreign Secretary. Since the gist of his request seemed to hint that early conflict was anticipated, and a contentious relationship with his own premier, all Melbourne could do was equivocate as charmingly as possible. Their brief discussion took no longer than the time for their carriage to reach the head of the queue, at which time he kissed his sister's cheek and wished them a good night.

As Melbourne ran lightly up the stairs toward their private apartments he saw a light under the door to the nursery and gingerly turned the handle, intending only to look in on the children. Instantly the sound of his daughter's voice could be heard, demanding her father. A harried nursery maid hesitated, looking from her young charge to the master, but she was no match for a three-year-old determined not to be thwarted.

"I'm so sorry, sir. Of course, she should be asleep, but she heard the horses below."

The little princess had been kneeling in a window seat overlooking the mews where the conveyances of those in attendance had been kept, horses walked back and forth by their handlers until such time as they were needed once more. The private family spaces were far removed from the State apartments but the voices of coachmen and postillions carried just enough to pique a restless child's attention.

"Papa!" She repeated, imperiously reaching out a hand for him. _My little princess_. Melbourne could no more resist his child than he could her mother. He lifted her into his arms, the solid warmth of her little body wrapping around him like a monkey.

Melbourne understood that his daughter posed a challenge to her caretakers. The Duchess of Kent had compared her strong will and refusal to be governed to that of her mother twenty years before. As a little girl, the future Queen of England already had a stubborn streak. She refused to behave, and her mother described her as “unmanageable.” Even after the appointment of Louise Lehzen, Victoria had thrown fearsome tantrums, once throwing a scissors at her governess in a fit of rage. Melbourne derived reassurance from these reminiscences, whether that was his mother-in-law's intent, thinking that as Victoria had gradually learned to channel her strong will and subdue a fiery temper, so would their daughter.

That night, keenly aware that Victoria was waiting, Melbourne had relented and sat beside Lily, requiring only that she get under the covers and try to sleep while he read to her. He had only turned a few pages when she had popped up once more, like an impish jack-in-the-box, and kissed his cheek.

"I love you more than _anyone_ , Papa. I'm your favorite girl."

"You are my favorite _little_ girl, Elizabeth," Melbourne reminded her, clearing his throat of the lump which had formed. He had marveled – _yes_ , _he had, it was not merely hindsight_ – at how deeply and irrevocably this small girl had planted her roots in his heart.

When sleep finally loosened her grip on his arm Melbourne had eased himself away and hurried down the hall to his own apartment. Once inside he paused only long enough to allow Baines to relieve him of his coat and cravat, then dismissed the valet and went to his wife's bedchamber.

The door did not open. Melbourne frowned and twisted the handle more vigorously, rattling it in the frame.

 _"I am asleep and do not wish to be disturbed_." Victoria's voice, through the stout oak door, was clear and crisp and decidedly awake.

"Victoria, open the door." He made his voice firm. "I am sorry I was delayed. Lily was up so I stayed until she went back to sleep."

"No. Go to bed unless you have more business to attend to. I do not wish to be disturbed." Her voice came from just on the other side of the door.

"Victoria…" Melbourne jiggled the knob once more, demanding she unlock the door. She complied, tugging it open so swiftly she nearly lost her balance. In the silent communication of marriage, Melbourne saw she was covered head to toe in a high-necked, long-sleeved white gown which might have been found in a convent, rather than one of her many lacy French peignoirs. Bare toes peeking out, small heart-shaped face scrubbed clean and rosy in the dim light streaming through tall windows, she looked all of twelve. Melbourne grinned, which caused her to frown mightily.

"I want to sleep alone. I don't want you." She spun around, turning her back on him so quickly her long hair flew over her shoulder.

That declaration, accompanied by the emphatic stomping of one small foot, caused him to hesitate for only the briefest moment. They knew each other too well. When either was genuinely, deeply angry with the other, they tended to withdraw and exhibit an icy formality. Instead, he recognized annoyance, and some measure of offended pride. His Victoria, his precious girl, must always come first with him. Just like her daughter.

"Well, ma'am, I most definitely want _you_." Melbourne lunged forward and in one swift movement wrapped his arms around her, pulling her toward him. She twisted and struggled to be free, cursing him roundly in language he could only assume she picked up in the stables.

"So unqueenly, ma'am!" He tightened his arms around her and one hand found her breast, soft and inviting even under the thick fabric of her nightdress. Her squirming held no real resistance, he thought, and her breath came more quickly than the moderate exertion might demand. His attempt to restrain her was met by soft muffled giggling, even as she continued to offer token resistance.

"So, you want to play rough," he growled in her ear. In response she rubbed her buttocks against him in a movement that might have been accidental, had she not repeated it more vigorously as soon as she felt his erection.

Desire flared. Never – _never –_ could he be genuinely rough with Victoria, but he could indulge her with the pretense. Her wriggling stimulated him as powerfully as the heat she gave off and he adjusted his stance, then yanked up the hem of the voluminous gown. He stiffened the arm he kept around her midsection, almost lifting her off the floor, while the fingers of his other hand found her, slick with desire. Melbourne half-carried, half-steered his wife to the nearest piece of furniture and bent her forward. Then he freed himself and pushed inside, grunting with the effort of the first powerful thrust.

Afterward, when they were both still panting and damp with exertion Melbourne had helped her stand upright and pulled down her gown with chaste care.

“Surely you didn't think this would stop me?" he smirked. "Did you borrow it from Lehzen for the occasion?" He pulled the offending garment over her head and traced the outline of her torso from rounded breasts to taut flat stomach to the flare of her hips.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "You are beautiful no matter what you wear…or don't."

She came into the arms he held open to receive her, and he held her, breathing in the fresh floral scent of her hair. Then he stepped back and stripped off his clothes, dropping them where they fell. Victoria reached for his shirt. On her, the garment reached to mid-thigh and the neckline gaped open to display  a fetching amount of cleavage.

Melbourne laid his own dressing gown on the foot of the bed, in easy reach for modesty's sake when the servants came in to wake them. Then he slid under the covers and curved his long body around Victoria's, pressing himself against the cleft of her buttocks.

"There," he whispered. "Ready for morning.”

And he was. When the first milky light of day filled their chamber, he opened his eyes to the sight of a mass of dark hair tickling his nose. Victoria had not shifted away from him and he sported a morning erection which would gladden a man thirty years younger. Still sleepy and relaxed, Melbourne began nibbling the furred lobe of a small pink ear while the hand cupped around Victoria's breast began a tentative exploration. He was aware of a feeling of profound contentment and well-being. She would awaken, and they would make love, or she would continue to sleep, and he would inhale her aroma and exult in her soft, complacent warmth. Either way it was good, so very very good.

**

The Queen was expected at Sunday services. As the Head of the Church – and, her husband conceded with respect, a devout Christian – Victoria could not miss a service. She and the children would take their places in the first pew. Melbourne had long had his wife's dispensation to omit ordinary Sunday observances, his presence required only on the High Holy Days. But that Sunday, for the first time, the children – more precisely, Princess Elizabeth – protested loudly that, since her father did not need to go, neither did she.

It took only one fleeting glance from Victoria for Melbourne to recognize his duty, and thirty minutes later, to the surprise of their household as much as the presiding vicar, the family of four, along with the Duchess of Kent, slid into the first row of the Chapel Royal.

As little use as Melbourne had for religious observance in his own life, he had long considered it right and proper that the Queen have that stabilizing influence in hers. When the church served its proper role in providing solace and spiritual guidance he had no complaint; it was only when the church began involving itself in the private lives of its adherents that he took umbrage. Overall he was, as he once said, content to support the church from outside its walls.

Londoners flocked to the Chapel for Sunday services, where the public was permitted to join their sovereign in her weekly prayers. Lord Melbourne was a universal favorite of the commoners and he passed faces wreathed in smiles, nodded genially to the many expressions of goodwill directed toward him.

The May-December romance of their Queen and her Prime Minister was a romantic legend, a true love story. It was generally acknowledged that her first marriage, to her cousin, had been an arranged affair made for dynastic purposes, and if the populace still held to the polite fiction that her children had been sired by Prince Albert, rumors had abounded even during his lifetime about the true nature of his inclinations and the role played by those effeminate young men with which he surrounded himself. When the Queen's handsome former Prime Minister remained faithfully by her side, befriending the Coburg prince, it was considered a relief by those who looked askance at another foreigner coming to suckle at the public teat. And when Prince Albert was killed in an unseemly public house brawl those who disbelieved that he was there on purely humanitarian business, to see firsthand the underside of the London slums, the Queen's remarriage to a good Englishman was roundly cheered.

The rest of that Sunday had been uneventful. Little Liam was invited to join in a game of cricket played by the equerries while his parents watched. The air was chilly, barely warmed by a sun that played peekaboo behind high scattered clouds, and Victoria had leaned against Lord Melbourne's side, shivering under her shawl, while their daughter scampered about on the sidelines, frantic to intercept any errant strike. More than once she was hit in the shins, ignoring both her parents' warnings, until Victoria demanded Melbourne pick her up bodily to remove her from danger of suffering more serious injury. He protested it was only the mildest of pickup games and reckoned none of those playing had the power to send the ball with any real force, but Victoria insisted. He later recalled her words with the clarity of a pealing bell.

"William, she must learn to accept some restrictions for her own safety."

Sunday evening was spent in a most leisurely fashion, with only the Queen's dearest friends, those ladies-in-waiting who had long since breached the boundary between formal appointment and genuine liking and trust. Melbourne had, for the first time in memory, volunteered to be a fourth at the Duchess's card game while Victoria laughed over _Punch_ with Emma Portman.

When they retired, Melbourne would recall, they had not made love. It was one of those cozy evenings when they were content to hold each other and listen to rain pattering on the windowpane, each reading – Victoria absorbed in an issue of _Revue des deux Mondes_ and Melbourne turning the pages Disraeli's _Young England_. The cold rain fell alike on the worst slums and on Buckingham Palace, but Melbourne was conscious of feeling grateful that within these stout walls all he held dear in the world was safe, warm and dry.

The Queen was due to open the London Stock Exchange Monday morning, in recognition of the first issuance of shares in the Direct London and Exeter Railroad, at the invitation of E.S. Blundell, Secretary of that new corporation. She was neatly attired in a green wool capelet that just matched her bonnet, and was tapping her foot impatiently, while Melbourne scanned a note just delivered from Brocket Hall.

They were late in setting out and as a result even with outriders wearing the Royal insignia navigated the congestion in the City. Queen Elizabeth I had opened the 'Change in 1571 and since then London had become a global center of finance. Victoria had done her usual scrupulous homework, familiarizing herself with the venerable institution and knew that her predecessors had often consented to open trading on the occasion of some or other particularly notable addition. In this year, 1845, excitement over the great profits to be made by investing in the rapid railway expansion had reached a fever pitch.

Melbourne had expressed some reservation about the exorbitant, almost unseemly return on investment of these railway stocks and opined to Victoria, privately that such bubbles always burst, spelling financial ruin for speculators and those unfortunate enough to be caught up in their wake. He named several good families brought to the edge of devastation by gambling on the 'Change.

Despite assiduous study Victoria was always speechless with admiration when her husband discoursed so casually on matters she knew were far beyond her comprehension. She might memorize salient facts, names and dates, but he _understood_ , effortlessly, in a way which thrilled her, a reminder that this man was a senior statesman who had actually governed the great nation over which she merely reigned.

Melbourne was both amused and flattered by his wife's open admiration. She had a keen natural intelligence, but lacked the benefit of a formal advanced education and the inclination to delve deeply into abstractions. He considered finance, at least on the scale practiced by brokers at the Exchange, to be the least interesting and most abstract of subjects but was nonetheless gratified at the reception he received at his wife's side.

After the opening ceremony Victoria was presented to the heads of the newly-traded railway while Melbourne was content to stand, hands clasped behind his back, and watch over his wife proudly.

When they were well underway, making the short trip across the city, he brought out the note he had received earlier. Victoria read the few lines, frowning.

"It's all repairable, isn't it?" she asked.

"I'm sure it is, but I must ride out and see for myself. I will set out as soon as possible and will return tonight."

"Are you sure? You might find more damage than your estate agent reports, or more serious damage."

"A roof collapsed from the weight of a fallen tree, and flooding. Our makeshift dam needs to be cleared. Whatever I find, there's nothing I can do except give the orders for repair. It's a two-hour ride, less than that if the roads are dry and traffic is light."

"The swimming pond?" Victoria asked, remembering blissful summer days spent swimming in the lovely manmade glade Melbourne had caused to be constructed, the pond fed by a stream diverted from the River Lea.

"I fear we will have to start over in spring. Some of the plantings may have washed away but never fear, ma'am –" he kissed the back of her hand. "We will have our Eden back again."


	12. Chapter 12

_...the sound of approaching hoofbeats..._

* * *

_He did not sit alone, on those nights he spent in his armchair, the brandy and the poet his only companions. No, he was visited by old friends and lovers, his mother and brothers, the shades who peopled his past._

_He did not flee as every sense urged, not flee in the physical sense, putting miles and oceans between himself and the scene of his crime, his unspeakable self-loathing. He could not commit that final sin, of treasonous abandonment._

_By day he stood at her side, loitered patiently in the background, hands clasped at his back, features carefully schooled into an expressionless mask._

_By night, when she was abed, he retreated no further than his own sitting room, the door between their suites left open so he could respond if she cried out in her sleep._

_Every organism clings to life, with a grim single-minded ferocity that overrules the seat of emotion, heart, mind and soul. No matter how desperate for rest the thinking being might be, the physical shell clings tenaciously to life._

**_'But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars…_ _That clay, where once such animation beam’d…"_**

_Ironic, or perhaps not, that of all the literature he'd read over a lifetime of erudition, the words of George Byron were those to which he turned._

* * *

It was nearly eleven when they reached Buckingham House once more. Victoria had moved as expeditiously as courtesy allowed past the worthies assembled to greet her.

As they rode she had asked him once more, as though seeking reassurance, whether they had made the right decision in beginning their son's formal tuition. The Prince of Wales had just been introduced to his new tutor. That gentleman had been most carefully selected by the Queen and Lord Melbourne from a host of eager candidates, not only for his erudition but for a mild, engaging manner which reassured the careful parents. Mr. James Blunt enthusiastically promised to devise strategies which would make lessons interesting and enjoyable.

"I was just four when I had my first tutor, George Davy. Liam is far more advanced intellectually than I was at his age…"

"But without his sister's boldness and confidence," Melbourne had finished her thought for her. "I believe Mr. Blunt has exactly the right manner, quiet and unassuming. Of course, they will never be entirely alone." Melbourne knew well the secrets boys only shared with each other, of tutors who touched and fondled and educated their charges in far more than academics. The dormitories at Eton had been filled with such whispered confidences, mostly delivered with swaggering boastfulness. Victoria knew nothing of such things; her mind went immediately to caning and physical chastisement.

"He knows that the Prince of Wales must never be disciplined without our knowledge and consent," she said firmly. Melbourne nodded, content in the knowledge that his small son had the benefit of a mother and father who took genuine interest in him, unlike so many of the heirs of noble houses.

"Liam?" Melbourne had retorted with good-natured skepticism. "Our son has never, to my knowledge, required discipline and I'm certain he won't going forward."

They continued discussing education, and at what age instruction in languages should begin – Victoria spoke four fluently – and Melbourne concurred that the younger a mind, the more plastic and receptive. He had removed her cloak and handed that, along with her bonnet and gloves, to a waiting footman. The household staff were well-trained to defer to the Queen's husband in such mundane tasks which others left to servants to perform. In the servants' quarters, the females found it yet another romanticism to sigh over, that his Lordship never failed to observe such tender courtesies. Those males in positions prominent enough they dared exercise the prerogative of station, expressed more bawdy admiration of the Queen's husband and his presumed prowess in satisfying a girl young enough to be his daughter or even, by some reckoning, granddaughter with the frequency and gusto described by loquacious chambermaids. Of course, Her Majesty's senior dresser and His Lordship's valet merely sniffed their disapproval if by happenstance they overheard.

Her dispatch boxes were left waiting as Victoria followed Melbourne to his apartment where he shed his town suit for country clothing and tall riding boots. She tucked her legs under her backside and curled up on a corner of his tufted leather sofa, her expression soft and adoring while she questioned Melbourne on his own childhood education.

"I can't fault Mother, or Mr. Lamb either – we had a succession of tutors at Melbourne Hall who tried their best. And I was always a reader, as were we all. Mother insisted we developed critical thinking skills and a facility for debate, and we were all natural talkers, much like Lily." He shook his head, chuckling at the memory which rose up, as he pulled on drawers before donning rough canvas trousers.

"All of us chattering like magpies, eager to debate every utterance – no wonder our tutors never lasted more than a season."

"Like your daughter, then," Victoria showed her dimples, smiling at her husband.

"Like Lily in that respect, yes. She is your daughter in all other ways. As your mother is so fond of observing. The Duchess feels quite vindicated for all she endured of your temper and willfulness, at seeing your own daughter give you a taste of your own medicine."

"You must eat before you set out. Your housekeeper won't have a good dinner ready, without warning you are coming."

Victoria sent a page to the kitchens and soon after a cart was rolled in, laden with tea, biscuits, cold meats and cheese and, for Lord Melbourne, a carafe of the strong French-pressed coffee he favored. She set everything out on a low table and patted the sofa cushion beside her while the absurdly shaped little German sausage dog sat up on his hind legs, begging. Melbourne laughingly accepted the bits of ham and slices of cheese she fed to him and the dog both, alternating her attentions between them.

Victoria held tightly to his hand as they went down the rear stairway, determined to see him off before returning to her own highly structured daily schedule. Melbourne had only just kissed her upturned face and turned to the door when they were jolted by cacophony from above.

The Duchess of Kent and Baroness Lehzen were approaching swiftly, talking between them in staccato voices. _Arguing again?_ Melbourne had wondered at the time, thinking the animosity between these old foes had abated over time.

"Drina, your daughter is out of control," The Duchess pronounced, determined to have the first word.

"Your Majesty, the princess only requires we take her in hand and impose some structure."

"Then _do so_ , Baroness. That _is_ still your job, is it not?"

Melbourne had held up both hands, palms out, and showed them his most charming smile.

"What is the princess doing? Surely it can't be that bad." He had meant it light-heartedly, but the words won him only a unification of the women and they both glared at his impertinence.

"Your Majesty, you were no different at her age. When the Duchess engaged me, you had formed the habit of behaving _exactly_ like Princess Elizabeth. She is not a bad child, but she needs structure and…" Lehzen had delivered her speech with firm authority but faltered when her gaze flickered to Lord Melbourne.

"…and she needs consistency in the rules we set down. For her own good, Your Majesty."

"Well, then, give her such consistency. I learned to restrain my willfulness. Although," Victoria dimpled, and picked up Lehzen's hands, squeezing them fondly. "I was not always easy, I know."

"You were willful, but you had a good heart. As does the princess."

"Then why must we have this constant turmoil? I give you carte blanche, Lehzen. You raised me, surely you can do with Lily as you did with me."

"Your – the Duchess and even John Conroy did not interfere in my management of the nursery, Drina."

"Surely you don't accuse me of interfering with Lily? Lehzen! I am shocked. You know I trust you to do what's best."

"Yes, Dri- yes, Your Majesty. But you are not her only parent." Lehzen's voice dropped to a whisper. "I should not say more."

"Please, Lehzen, speak freely. Lord Melbourne holds you in the highest esteem."

"Thank you." Lehzen bowed her head. "And I have the greatest respect for Lord Melbourne. Truly I do." She added the last with an emphasis which suggested her words might be disputed. "I have never seen a father who loved his child more. But he is not firm. And it does no good to make rules and enforce them when the princess can appeal to her father."

Victoria tightened her lips, a sure sign of displeasure.

"Lord Melbourne has a father's authority," she snapped, unwilling to tolerate any criticism of her beloved.

"Of course, Your Majesty. I don't suggest otherwise. Only…" Lehzen's thin lips tightened and her eyes narrowed to a slit, clearly fearing for her tenure yet determined to proceed.

"Lord Melbourne, some curtailment of her freedom is necessary for her own good. For the formation of her character, but also…for her well-being. The princess fears nothing and believes nothing is beyond her abilities and if that is not stemmed I fear for her safety." The words came out in a rush, nearly garbled from the governess's obvious trepidation.

"Drina, the Baroness is right." Victoria's head went up in surprise at hearing her mother coming down on the side of her long-time nemesis. "I know you chafed under the restrictions I imposed but your safety was everything to me – _everything_. Elizabeth has no such safeguards in place."

Victoria recalled the many safeguards of which her mother spoke – never being allowed to walk up or down stairs without holding the hand of an escort, never being alone, not once, for the merest interval. Sleeping beside her mother in a bed. Feeling like a fragile vessel, but a vessel nonetheless, an object meant to contain the hopes and dreams of another.

"I don't want that for Lily. Of course, she is safe. She's in a palace, surrounded by servants and guards. And she has a father who adores her, something I never had."

Even as those words lingered in the air, something happened to give them the lie. All the adults present turned their heads in unison as the princess, with two nursery maids and Lady Lyttleton in pursuit, tried to outrun them on her short legs and tumbled down the staircase.

Melbourne had moved in a flash, roughly shoving aside those who stood in his path, and reached the bottom of the stairs just as his daughter landed at his feet. He scooped her up swiftly and was holding her tightly while she was still shocked breathless, even before she recovered herself and began to wail.

She was examined from head to toe and deemed miraculously uninjured, save for reddened shins which would undoubtedly give way to angry bruising. While Victoria stood with her mother and Lehzen, Melbourne spoke, more sharply and with more anger than anyone present had ever thought him capable.

"You!" He pointed a finger at Lady Lyttleton, titular official governess and the one who had been leading the chase. "Get out. What kind of _fool_ chases a child down a _stairway?_ Get out of my sight, out of the palace _now._ I don't give a damn whose patronage got you your position, I will not have you around my children."

Even the princess had silenced her cries, watching her father round-eyed with wonder at his furious display. She was readily soothed after the episode, only refusing to relinquish her grasp on her father's neck.

"I go with you. I want to go to Brocket Hall!"

Melbourne had intended to ride, for the sake of expediency, because taking a wheeled vehicle would add much time to the trip. Roads had washed away from the weeks of ceaseless rain and those which remained were rutted with great potholes. His daughter could not ride pillion for over an hour, however, and so a curricle would be the next best conveyance. The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was clear, so he reckoned an open-top sporting vehicle could cover the distance nearly as quickly as a rider on horseback. There would be no room for a third, so he would travel without a cortège, no maidservant.

"I'll take Clara," Melbourne said, by way of offering reassurance. The protection officer left in place by Lord Cameron's arrangements for the prince and princess was a stocky, plain-faced fisherman's daughter. She had a no-nonsense, mannish air and disdained petticoats and flounces, habitually dressed in a vaguely militaristic riding habit, narrow divided skirt and short jacket.

"She's not a nurse," Victoria protested mildly. "Her job is not to mind the children, it is to protect them."

Melbourne grinned and chucked his wife under the chin. "She spends all day with them, and Lily likes her. At least, she doesn't dislike her. She can tend to whatever personal needs Lily might have, and I have servants at the Hall as well, you might remember."

"If you're sure…" Victoria had conceded dubiously. "I don't want you to be unduly taxed. Recall when you took them to the Hall in June?"

Melbourne did indeed recall the days he had spent as sole caretaker of his own children, with only meager assistance from an inept under-servant and his own elderly household staff. Skinned knees, bloody noses, falling from apple trees, being routed by a flock of sheep, one of which took exception at Lily’s determined attempt to ride its back...he shook his head at the memory of his own over-confident folly.

"We'll be there an hour or two at most, I will review the flood damage and return in time for dinner. What can go wrong?"


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

_The world seemed muffled, wrapped in gauzy mist. Voices spoke in whispers and low, indistinct murmurs. He cared little what anyone had to say, saw only lips moving on earnest solemn faces. It was best that way. Her voice was the only one which penetrated the fog, her dulcet tones; her face the only one he could see, clear and distinct. Those luminescent blue eyes, her precious heart-shaped face. He could not say whether she looked at him, or how she looked at him, because he could not bear to meet her gaze. He kept his own carefully averted, turned towards her but never allowing their eyes to meet._

_He was in awe of her strength and composure. She had shrieked, certainly; had crumpled perhaps, had trembled and sobbed, but never once in his presence. A tiny figure, held erect by duty and innate dignity, it was she who comforted others, said all the right things to soothe and console. Toward him she was careful and tender, as though he was the one who might shatter into a thousand sharp-edged pieces._

_When he spoke to her his own voice echoed in his head, replete with gentle courtesy and self-effacement. He did his pitiable best to be of service, anticipating her need of a pen, a paper, a book, to relieve her of some burden, a document, or the cards and letters which found their way to her hands despite the combined efforts of the devoted servants and courtiers who tried their best to spare her._

_He never allowed himself to drink to excess on night vigil, lest she need him, call out to him. At least, he thought he did not. There were times when brandy fogged his mind enough that he did not recall how he had found his way to his own bed, laid himself down, loosened his clothing. Perhaps, while his mind wandered…perhaps his good valet performed that office…he neither knew nor cared. So long as he was able to come if she called, attend her if she had need of him, his duty was done._

**

The sun shone brightly, and the air was unseasonably mild, as though Mother Nature made amends for the weeks of constant rain. It was the sort of day when he and his fellows would have found sport as soon as they could escape the halls of Eton and run wild in the playing fields, exulting in their freedom. Lily was in fine fettle, chattering the whole way, delighted to have her father all to herself. Only a single groom and the young woman, Clara ( _Murphy?_ Melbourne thought, or _Kelly? - something as Irish as her thick brogue and placid freckled face)_ accompanied them, riding behind the curricle. When her father's response wasn't enough to satisfy her, Lily would call back to the riders, including them in her excited observation of the wonders she beheld. A boy driving two sorry-looking cows, pigs in a cottage garden, rabbits darting across the road and, once, a deer and her fawn standing on the shoulder watching them pass all caught her fancy and must be shared.

Lord Melbourne listened with amusement to her constant stream of commentary, but even his attention flagged, and he found his mind wandering pleasantly. The first time he held his girl-Queen in his arms as they waltzed, and his effort to contain his own boyish pleasure at her nearness and the feel of her back under his hand. The light in her eyes when they met his own at some function or other, and the manner in which she drew silent reassurance from his barely-discernible nod of encouragement. The child she had been – _and oh! how he searched his own memory for the times he must have caught a glimpse of her at her Uncle King's court, all unaware that this cipher, the mysterious captive of Kensington, held his future in her hands._ And yes, the first time he looked into her eyes and knew, with clear certainty, that he had finally met the one he had been searching for. His love. His heart.

"What, my darling? Please say that again." Lily's chubby hand gripped his chin, turning his face down to hers.

"Papa! You must listen when I tell you something!" Melbourne bit back a smile, sure from the words and her delivery that she had been told this very thing by the redoubtable Lehzen. _How children soaked up everything they saw and heard_ , he marveled.

"I'm sorry," he told her with genuine contrition, but miming a look of such remorse that she patted his cheek reassuringly.

"That's all right then, Papa. I know you're a good Papa." And she proceeded to repeat, with a display of exaggerated patience, some long-winded tale involving fairytale creatures which inhabited the woodland.

She was truly her mother in miniature, not only in the natural imperiousness but in her large cerulean eyes, bow lips and heart-shaped face. Her hair was as dark and glossy as her mother's, but perpetually unkempt, defying every attempt to contain it with ribbons and bows. Her bonnet generally rode on her shoulders, suspended by a defeated string, and her stockings more often than not sagged on sturdy legs which never ceased moving. She preferred her brother's short pants and sturdy shoes to the dainty frocks more appropriate to a little girl and she used the pockets to hold an assortment of small treasures which caught her eye. A footman's lost shoe buckle, some treat for the dogs which followed her about, the shiny objects she collected like a magpie.

Impulsively Melbourne picked her up and set her on his lap and was surprised at how light she was, how little space she took up. The Princess Royale was such a larger-than-life presence, it came as a shock that she was actually small for her age, born a month premature, a fragile little being entirely dependent on others to protect her. Even from herself, he thought, remembering the concerns of the Baroness and her grandmother.

Melbourne knew he was not firm, not with his ministers, allowing Palmerston to run wild and set a dangerous course in foreign policy under his watch, not with Caro when everyone around him said he must compel her obedience, nor with Augustus when he had a man's size and strength, and a man's needs, and frightened the maids with clumsy attacks. And certainly not with this angel, heart of his heart, light of his life. But he knew her caretakers were right, knew that Victoria would follow his lead in her desire to please him, and resolved, when they returned to London, to permit, even encourage, Lehzen to begin taming this tempestuous toddler as she had done so successfully with Victoria.

**

The first Privy Council of the Russell Ministry had assembled as soon as was practical after the change in government. There was much routine business to cover, and the Queen had requested that Russell's new appointment to the post of Home Secretary of Ireland be present. She had specifically asked to be in attendance when he received his portfolio, so that she would know precisely how he intended to deal first with the crisis brewing. People were going hungry, families were turned off the small plots they farmed, and bodies were going unburied, or so the popular press had it.

Henry Labouchere, 1st Baron Taunton, had begun the second Melbourne ministry as Master of the Mint, Privy Counsellor, and Vice-President of the Board of Trade, then later, Under-Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. Lord Melbourne had raised him Labouchere was raised to a cabinet post, President of the Board of Trade, which he held from 1839 until Melbourne resigned. Victoria was predisposed to think well of anyone Lord M had trusted, and that knowledge made her doubly determined to guard against such sentimentality.

"Your Majesty, you must know that both your – the Viscount Melbourne and Sir Robert Peel were of the opinion that the Irish tend to exaggerate their woes. Any news from Ireland is generally half as bad as it is reported, I believe Lord Melbourne once said." Victoria heard out John Russell, disliking his ingratiating, condescending tone.

"Nonetheless, Lord Russell, we will take these reports as factual until they are proven otherwise. To that end, we will expect that Baron Taunton will conduct a fact-finding tour and report back immediately. And secondly, you will begin formulating recommendations to remedy the worst abuses identified by the Royal Commission we established.”

In February of that same year, Lord Devon had reported to Parliament and the Crown the findings of the Royal Commission established to review the root causes of dissatisfaction in Ireland. Despite being an entirely one-sided commission composed solely of absentee property owners, its conclusions were devastating.

_"It would be impossible adequately to describe the privations which they [the Irish labourer and his family] habitually and silently endure ... in many districts their only food is the potato, their only beverage water ... their cabins are seldom a protection against the weather ... a bed or a blanket is a rare luxury ... and nearly in all their pig and a manure heap constitute their only property."_

"Such fundamental changes will take years, if not decades, to –"

"Quite right, Lord Russell. We are relieved you see it that way too. When people are hungry and cold, when their children are wasting away before their eyes, _political change_ is a distant and quite irrelevant goal. The first order of business must to devise a plan of relief, to provide food and firewood and other essentials to help the people prepare for the coming winter. Then we must have agricultural experts inform us how to ensure that next year's harvest is not blighted."

Victoria, satisfied that she had expressed clearly the urgency with which she viewed the dire conditions of her subjects, watched and listened with a cool, impervious expression as Council business proceeded. When they'd adjourned she wished keenly for Lord M's speedy return, so she could show him the facts and figures their new Irish Home Secretary had presented her with, in the hope – so she surmised – of distracting her with difficult-to-digest statistical data. _Well_ , she thought, _digest it we will. We are not to be distracted from what is important._ By 'we' she meant not the royal pronoun but she and Lord M, her indispensable adviser and partner in the business of monarchy.

* * *

As was to be expected after a sedentary journey of an hour's duration, Lily bounded out of the curricle full of pent-up energy when they reached Brocket Hall.

She greeted his servants by name, with enthusiastic warmth that was reciprocated by a stately butler, majordomo and the housekeeper who served as cook for the handful of retainers who kept the house ready for their master.

The estate agent stepped forward to meet Lord Melbourne. This gentleman bore the appearance of an accountant, which indeed he was, the first in his family to attend university. He was a barrister by training and devoted most of his time and attention of late to managing the affairs of the Lamb family. His name was Coke and he had some claim to kinship with Lord Melbourne's family, although the particulars had been lost to time.

"Mr. Coke," Melbourne shook his hand. The lawyer displayed a leather portfolio containing painstakingly written columns of letters and numbers, which he proffered. He paid no notice to the small, tangle-haired child staring up at him.

"I am the Princess Elizabeth Victoire and you may bow to me. I do not want you to kiss my hand."

Lord Melbourne grinned sheepishly, his smile fading when it became apparent this man of business had no interest in the smallest member of the royal family. He shushed her and looked to the housekeeper, who stepped forward wreathed in warmth.

They proceeded to walk through each room.

"The Grand Saloon is undamaged, which is the best possible news since the Wheatley ceiling is irreplaceable. As the newest addition your grandfather made, the roof was sound."

Since his titular grandfather, Sir Matthew Lamb, had constructed the magnificent space, with a banquet table holding eighty chairs and a breathtaking celestial landscape overhead, for the express hope of someday entertaining royalty, Melbourne considered his duty to the family name well done. The first Baronet could not only have the satisfaction of knowing his prized possession _entertained_ royalty; he might know it was home to them and his own great-grandson would someday be king of England.

Meanwhile, that same progenitor – in name, at least – had a great-granddaughter busily engaged in determining whether the corded braid ropes attached to silk window coverings was suitable to serve as a swing. Melbourne called to her and when she disregarded his summons, walked over to remove her bodily from the scene of her acrobatic efforts. She remained unresisting on his arm, borne along as they continued their inspection.

In the library, housing most of Melbourne's extensive literary collection, large damp patches stained the ceiling and one entire section of floor-to-ceiling shelves had been relieved of their contents, with books set in piles on his broad desk.

Mr. Coke dutifully checked boxes and wrote notes in a cramped hand as Melbourne clumsily flipped through as many volumes as he could one-handed, looking for water stains and damp that would soon turn to mold if not carefully dried.

He lost patience when he was instructed to climb the stairs to examine the upper rooms. Lily was growing restive, swinging her legs forcefully enough that he feared the heel of her boot might at any moment emasculate him, and so he waved dismissively, assuring the agent that he would rely on his inspection and authorize whatever repairs were deemed necessary.

The Temple was completely destroyed, Melbourne was informed. Paine had built the Temple with a plaster ceiling, elliptical porch and pediment above its eastern entrance, generally considered one of the finest garden temples of the era. Melbourne sent the agent to the bedroom wings and set his daughter down, so they could follow his major domo outside.

Seeing the fine building collapsed, its delicate white trellises shattered to matchsticks and the limb of an aged oak resting in the remains saddened Lord Melbourne. He had spent some of the early years of his first marriage here, reading while Caro painted, and had later taken Victoria to enjoy the broad vista stretching down to the River Lea on warm summer evenings. Had, in fact, once made love to her within, hidden only by the deepening violet of a June twilight.

"Lily, no!" he said sharply, in what was becoming a near-constant refrain. She was clambering over the fallen lumber and wrought iron balustrades, and he was forced to follow. When he had succeeded in catching her under the arms and lifting her away from potential danger she proudly displayed a single multi-petaled scarlet bloom. A cutting of the prized dahlias Elizabeth Holland had introduced to England, he recognized, surviving in a glazed pot under the ruins.

Melbourne set his daughter firmly on the ground and crouched before her.

"I am sorry I shouted, but you must stay at my side. Do you understand?" He teased a nod from his recalcitrant child and gripped her hand tightly in his before proceeding.

"Do you wish to see the pond, or what's left of it, sir? Let us know what you wish to salvage."

The pond was more than merely a chance body of water. Lord Melbourne had worked with his chief horticulturist and a crew of workmen to divert a small stream from the adjacent River Lea, digging a channel and building a dam at one end of the resulting pool. Laborers had dug deeply enough so that a satisfactory depth could be maintained, and the whole glade landscaped with large granite boulders hauled by mule teams from all over the county, weeping willow trees and an array of flowering shrubs to form a wall for privacy. He and Victoria, his sister and her husband had spent many a pleasurable summer's day frolicking in the pond, the men even diving off the rustic bridge spanning one end of the artificial stream.

Melbourne philosophically reflected that what could be done once, could be done again, but his man was correct – it was up to him to determine how to proceed now, to minimize damage to the area and surrounding pasture. He glanced up at the western sky, gauging the time – there was no need for concern as yet, they had plenty of time to view the flood damage and return to Buckingham House well before the Queen would expect them.

"Elizabeth, hold tightly to my hand. We must inspect the pond."

Her eyes lit up and she nearly danced with anticipation at the prospect. She and her brother had never been allowed to see the fabled pond. They were too young, even _Papa_ had said, which made the secret even more tantalizing. The grownups would venture off, laughing, only after nursery had quieted for afternoon nap, and when they returned they were wet and happy and _Papa_ was holding _Mama_ close. Lily had determined weeks before, on the last days of summer holiday, that she would see the pond before long, and today was the day.

**

The sun was not yet low in the sky, and the air was balmy for October, but Victoria felt a sudden chill. She shivered and the lady-in-waiting at her side produced a light shawl seemingly apparated just for this occurrence. That was, after all, one of their very minimal duties, to anticipate any need the Queen might have. Wrapping the gossamer fabric about her shoulders, Victoria continued walking down the corridor beside her lady-in-waiting.

"I do wish Lord M was back," she blurted, knowing she could confide so silly a sentiment safely to Emma Portman. He had been gone only a few short hours.

  

* * *

 

 

 

_Things will indeed get rocky for Lord M and his beloved family. Thank you for sharing the ride, and seeing him safely to the other side.[essero has posted another anthem to Lord M in his season of discontent...and regret.](https://youtu.be/gMJPeVnucGM) "Like" and subscribe to her brilliant work._

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

if

In 1837 the Honourable East India Company started a scheduled steamer service between Bombay and Suez, at the head of the Red Sea, which marked the beginning of an era in east-west trade. For the first time, passengers and mail bound for India could go directly via the Middle East instead of undertaking the long, unpredictable journey around Africa. The journey time from London to Bombay was clipped from an uncertain six months or so to a matter of nine weeks.

Traveling by the fastest route, along with the mails, the journey to India started from London with a train on the South Eastern Railway which took travelers as far as Folkestone. This had been followed by the Channel crossing on board a steam packet to Boulogne, by train to Marseilles (preferably by Wagon-Lits), and then by the P & O steamer service to Alexandria.

There they would have embarked on the Mahmoudieh Canal in a barge towed by a steam tug, and the journey up the Nile to Boulac, the port of Cairo, would be by means of a small river steamer, followed by an overnight stay at Shepheard's. Travelers would then go overland by horse-drawn wagon in eight stages across some 80 miles of desert to Suez, a journey usually undertaken at night but nevertheless notoriously uncomfortable. *****

This most direct route was not made available to everyone, nor was it within the means of most, junior merchants recruited to the Company straight out of university, middle-aged careerists on their single permitted home leave, ordinary troops traveling back and forth to the East to serve in either the British Army or the private standing military force of the East India Company.

The party of the new Governor-General of India was shown the highest degree of careful attention to every comfort. Speed was essential, of course, but so was the necessity for setting a dignified example of the might of the great British Empire. Where the mail would already have disembarked in Alexandria and be well on its way through Egypt, Viscount Hardinge's train was still on a siding in Marseille when the mail pouch caught up with them.

Hardinge, like many gentlemen who had never seen real action in the field of battle, had a great affinity for the company of those who had. Amongst his party was the protection officer assigned to the man he would sent to Jind Kaur. William Cameron was a big enough fellow to make anyone feel safe, and Hardinge, if he was honest with himself, envied the fellow his lazy insouciant disregard for the trappings of power. Where other men his age comported themselves stiffly around their superiors, and one was hard-pressed to get a single word out of them beyond bland civilities liberally laden with Sirs and Your Lordships, Cameron always seemed as though he found much to be amused by in the pretentions of his betters. He had good battle stories to tell, too, none which hinted at self-aggrandizement and many of which were vague enough as to time and place that Hardinge thought he could readily incorporate them in his own painstakingly embellished resume with no one the wiser.

Hardinge knew that Cameron's most recent service had not been in the Army, but in the hallowed halls of Buckingham House. Still, he considered the man no mole, no conduit bearing tales back to the Crown – he was far too rough in manner and appearance to have the ear of the Queen or Lord Melbourne.

The French insisted – as only the French could insist, with a disingenuous attempt to disguise blunt demands under overtures of friendship and hospitality – on sending their own Foreign Office Staff to meet with Hardinge and weigh his intentions as regards to the perpetual Great Game afoot in the East. A week's delay ensured, during which time the luxuries of the private train on which the Governor-General and his staff were forced to live grew thin.

Hardinge had ordered his aide dispatch a note by diplomatic pouch to the new Foreign Secretary, seeking permission from Palmerston to end the charade and force his departure, even at risk of offending their French hosts. He knew Palmerston was a fiery patriot who would brook no interference from his perpetual adversaries, the French, and wanted only an order in writing to bid adieu and continue his journey without providing the assurance Soult required.

Hardinge grasped the sealed pouch placed in his hands. It was sealed with the wax imprint of the Foreign Secretary's office, which made him nod with satisfaction. Palmerston had wasted no time in responding, which was certainly a promising start to their political association.

Within, he found the letter from Palmerston he anticipated, along with a second, curiously addressed in a different hand to the private protection officer whose war stories he looked forward to appropriating.

When summoned, the big fellow accepted his mail with laconic disinterest, only tossing back that mane of unkempt hair.

"Open it, man. Don't stand on ceremony with me," Hardinge growled, curious as to what it might contain. Lord Cameron complied and to the Governor-General's great interest, a visible change came over him, one which hinted at the real reason a poverty-stricken Irish Baron's son might rise to the rank of Colonel in the British Army. A palpable tension tightened the broad shoulders, and his very bearing became more alert and militaristic. When he looked back at Hardinge, Cameron's handsome features were composed, his expression almost mild, but his eyes sparkled dangerously.

"I must return to London immediately," he said shortly. "They will send someone else to go with you and accompany the High Commissioner, Lord Hardinge."

His own missive, to the Governor-General's disappointment, was only a terse note signed and, he thought, written by Viscount Palmerston himself, directing him to make all resources available to expedite the return of William Cameron. By order of the Queen, in her own husband’s hand.

**

The Queen, neat and composed, walked past the line of staff in Household livery, all of whom bowed as she passed in a swirl of blue silk skirts. Within the apartment fitted out as a hospital suite her closest personal attendants waited with several well-dressed gentlemen.

John Forbes, one of the Royal physicians, stood by the side of another medical man. He was introduced as George McClellan. Standing subserviently to one side, their bright alert eyes and immaculate uniforms belying the display of subservience, were those nursing sisters who provided such superb round-the-clock care.

Forbes presented Dr. McClellan to his Queen and Lord Melbourne, standing at her side. Victoria acknowledged the American physician with a brief nod and a smile which didn't reach her eyes. She shifted imperceptibly closer to her husband, even as she felt him withdraw.

"Thank you for coming, sir," she said.

"Dr. Forbes extended Your Majesty's – er, invitation to consult. I must tell you, ma'am, I am a surgeon, not a general physician. You have the best British doctors already at hand."

"You are here, sir, because Dr. Forbes has suggested an operation to – to remove our daughter's infected lung. He feels it might be the only remedy remaining."

To Victoria's shock the American snorted.

"That's a ridiculous proposition, and had I known that was why I was summoned I could have saved you time."

Victoria's eyes flashed, and she drew herself up to her full height.

"What do you recommend then, sir?"

"Prayer." The answer was stated flatly, and Victoria's eyes narrowed. The tall gaunt man, so full of himself, she thought, relented. He was known for compassionate care – she had read over the dossier hurriedly assembled, and knew that his patients, those fortunate enough to be received into his practice, uniformly praised his warmth and the genuine emotional attachment he formed to each.

"Ma'am, I have familiarized myself with your daughter's case. She faces so many obstacles to recovery, I need hardly enumerate them. Her size – she is little over 12kg when normal weight for a child her age is 15kg. She was submerged in water longer than is considered consistent with life. I would be happier if the water had been colder – snow runoff, a mountain stream – for there are cases of spontaneous recovery after even longer periods, as though the body goes into a sort of suspended animation, when the water is extremely cold. Instead, she was submerged in water contaminated with farm runoff, manure and the like. A higher fever would tell us her body was fighting the lung infection but so far the nurses tell me she shows no sign of that.

The princess sustained physical injuries as well. I don't speak of those visible injuries because cuts and scrapes will heal. But her head was battered, and we have no way of knowing what damage that might have caused.

In short, ma'am, there is nothing we can do. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise or raise your hopes with false promises. Time and nature will decide. These good women are performing the only service your daughter can benefit from, keeping her warm and dry, forcing down whatever she can swallow."

Victoria was furious with herself for the tears she knew were threatening to spill over and course down her cheeks. For the sake of her own dignity, of course, but more importantly, for William. She must be strong for William, could not let him bear the burden of her weakness as well as his own grief.

"It's a good sign that she _can_ swallow, ma'am. That's a basic biological function, but one which means there is still a – a soul in there, if you are religious, or a functioning brain if you are more comfortable speaking of science."

"Then…" he had already committed the faux pas of turning away before she dismissed him. _Americans_ , she knew, deliberately thwarted even those conventions everyone observed.

Victoria's hand found her husband's and slid her own fingers against his palm, willing him to close his hand around hers. For an awful moment she thought he would not, and then…he did. The contact tethered her, gave her strength and focus.

"Is there anything else we can do, Dr. McClellan? Anything?" She was satisfied that her voice did not sound entirely pleading.

Their visitor had already reached the door. He turned when he heard the question and appeared to consider it at great length. Then he nodded.

"Talk to her. Read to her from books she knows. Talk to her of your day, of things you've done as a family and will do again. Read to her from the Times if you must but talk to her. Give her mind something to hang onto, her soul a reason to return. Let her hear your voice and feel your presence. I know these good sisters will insist that she needs rest and quiet, but in these hopeless cases I dispute that. It won't be easy for you or –" for the first time he addressed the Queen's husband, the man standing silently at her side. " – or for you, sir, but spend as much time with her as you can. It might help and if it does not, you will have had the time with her, easing her passage."

**

Victoria and Melbourne stood, temporarily alone, in an alcove. She looked up at him, searching the handsome, remote face.

"Darling, there is hope. No matter what he said – or perhaps _because of what he said_ – there is hope. He may have been rude and uncivilized, but he told us to talk to her. That means she can hear us."

"Of course, ma'am, sound advice to be sure. 'First, do no harm' and such advice can do no harm. It allows us to feel as though we are doing something. I encourage you to follow that course if it feels right to you." Victoria heard the emptiness beneath his gentle, cool tone and her heart clenched painfully.

"My darling, she loves you above all others. Of course, I will sit with her too, read to her and talk to her, and Liam may do so as well…but she needs to hear you." She raised herself on tiptoes, touching his face, desperate to reach him. He only smiled bleakly.

"Of course, ma'am," he said, the words spoken too smoothly to contain any meaning except a desire to placate.

They were interrupted by an equerry, new to the post, who bowed and presented his Queen with a folded note on a silver salver. Victoria opened it and quickly read the single line.

"William, I must –" Melbourne had raised her hand and kissed it before she finished speaking.

"Of course, ma'am, go do what you must. I will be in my apartment if you need me."

Victoria gave the order that her visitor be shown into the Blue Closet, that small very private drawing room set at some distance from the State apartments and the private family wing. She hurried down the corridor, stepping quickly to meet her visitor.

**

Cameron had focused all his attention on covering the distance from Marseilles to London as rapidly as he could. He knew well that he could readily assume a commanding, even threatening, demeanor and used that to his advantage, along with the Whitehall emblem on his summons and the Royal warrant he carried.

He had only been gone a short time, but there were new faces in evidence, appointments and sinecures from the new government, he supposed. Nonetheless, those Guards who formed the first line of defense against unauthorized intrusion recognized him and allowed him to pass. Once within the great pile he strode so quickly past sentries and equerries that he was gone before any could think to react. The boy he'd chosen to deliver his note returned quickly, offering to lead him to the Blue Closet. Cameron shook his head and pushed him back, covering the distance in long strides.

Cameron had not gone directly to the palace, despite his orders. He had gone to South Street first and spent time with the woman he'd left in charge of the children. Clara Kelly was a good girl, and fierce, and absolutely fearless, all those things were true, but after ten minutes in her company he recognized the flaw in his preparation. _Know your men, their strengths and their weaknesses._ He had calculated her strengths well but had neglected that dictum in failing to recognize and account for her weakness. A shy girl socially, an innate respecter of persons and in awe of proximity to power, she had not intervened sooner, more forcefully, more focused on protecting her charges from dangers without than challenging authority within.

She owned it herself, her broad face miserable and full of shamed contrition. The girl she called wife sat beside her, holding her hand tightly, squeezing it for comfort when tears spilled out of her watery gray eyes.

_"Wee one shouldn't a been there, should've stayed at the manor house, should've stayed at the palace. I know that now, knew it as soon as I seen the flood damage. 'N should never have gone to the river, for sure. But she wanted her Da, always her Da, and I woulda had ta wrestle her down n tie her up – but I let her come to harm, and I failed her. 'N you, Billy, 'n you. I belong back in the rough, back in my own da's shack cleanin' fish and he spittin' on me for not wantin' ta marry a village boy."_

Cameron let her get it all out, without stemming the flood of words. He thought of those he might have chosen instead, bold confident street girls who had found their way into his service, well able to confront the child's father and the Queen herself to make their feelings known. A ready answer presented itself to justify his choice – that former prostitutes and camp followers had no place in the nursery of a prince and princess – but it wasn't the right one. Cameron knew that in that decision, as in so many others, he had pre-emptively considered the feelings of the one person in the world whose opinion he cared for. He had chosen this homely, simple creature to spare Victoria the presence of some seductive beauty under the eyes of a husband she adored.

The very notion made him bite back a snort of laughter, lest poor Clara think he was laughing at her. But the notion of Lord Melbourne looking twice at some Dockside whore, no matter how well rehabilitated by posting in his secret service, was that ludicrous. Melbourne was as lovesick over his wife as she was for him and neither had any inclination to look further. Yet, to spare Victoria even the slightest discomfort, Cameron had made a choice which played some part in this whole fiasco.

"You _saved_ her, Clara. You dove in that river and you pulled her to safety. Then you got her breathing again when she looked to be gone. You _saved_ her, remember that." The girl sitting beside Clara beamed at him gratefully, but she herself only sniffled, her head still hanging in shame.

From the town house on South Street he had gone to Buckingham House and stood now prepared to meet his Queen.

Victoria swept in, as pretty and well-groomed as always, he noticed, her dark hair smooth and neatly pinned up. Her lovely face was serene at first glance, and only the glitter in those eyes, fringed as they were by thick black lashes, hinted at the emotional turmoil she so carefully concealed.

She greeted him civilly, but did not ask him to sit, nor did she sit herself. Instead she began pacing about, making circles on the patterned rug, walking around him until he felt like a cadet on inspection. Or a mouse cornered by some feral cat.

"You should have been here," were the first words she spoke, in a deadly calm voice. Then, her voice rising, she repeated herself. "You should have been here!"

Cameron simply listened, willing to meet her eyes if she'd have it, hands hanging at his side.

"You should have been here," the Queen said a third time, this time almost shouting. "Where were you? On some _stupid_ adventure when you should have been _here_ , protecting my family. You were here when she was born, damn you. You were here when she came into the world, but you could not be here when she –"

She stopped walking and fell silent, bringing both hands to her face. Cameron stepped forward without thinking, every instinct urging him to hold and comfort. As soon as he came within arm's reach Victoria turned her face up and reached out. Instead of an embrace, she began pummeling him, pounding his broad chest with her fists, crying, shrieking incomprehensibly except that he got the gist. Despite her small stature she hit with surprising force, landing blows on his arms, his shoulders, his chest, hitting, her small fists clenched and her expression fierce.

Cameron merely stood and took the blows, let her words wash over him. Words of rage and hate and grief and finally, despair. Then he could endure no more.

"No, ma'am, no…it's not all ruined. You'll see. Your daughter lives yet, and you have your son and you and Lord Melbourne have each other." He murmured whatever reassuring nonsense came to mind, except it wasn't nonsense. As long as she and her husband had each other, then queen or commoner, they would come back from this. Whatever happened to the wee sprite fighting for her life somewhere in the great palace.

When she was spent, and the sudden fury abated Cameron sat, and gently pulled her down beside him.

"Get it all out, ma'am, get it all out," he whispered, patting her back while she soaked his coat and shirt with her tears. He took a kerchief from his pocket, a bright silk of his old regimental colors, and gently wiped her face, telling her to blow her nose as he might tell her own child.

"Is this the first time you've cried?" he asked, already suspecting the answer. Victoria nodded, her lips forming a trembling attempted smile.

"Where's Lord M?" Cameron asked next, genuinely curious. He had rarely seen the one without the other.

"In…in his apartment. He has been good, so very good, you must not think…but he blames himself and he loved -loves Lily so….I am afraid."

She did not define what she feared, but Cameron suspected it was more even than the loss of a child.

"He blames himself?" Cameron said instead. "He should not. He worships the child, and she him."

"Of course, he should not, but he does. I know it although he does not say so. If she – if she dies, I will lose him too." Cameron knew she had spoken her most secret fear aloud, the terror underlying all others. Even beyond a mother's love, Victoria loved and needed Lord Melbourne.

They spoke longer, in hushed whispers now despite the fact that even screams had not penetrated the thick walls around them.

"What can I do, Billy? What can I do to fix things?" The plea, from this girl who had his whole heart, twisted something within Cameron so painfully he flinched.

"Tell _him_ you need him. Show him you need him, as much as he needs you. Don't be strong for him, it will only encourage him to think himself dispensable. Not –" he lifted a hand hurriedly to stem her instant protest. "-if he's thinking that…without the princess…he is free to…punish himself further, show him that you need him. Make him remember that."

"But how?" Victoria asked. Her hair had tumbled about her shoulders, half suspended by the pins her dresser had so carefully placed, the rest a tangled mass of twisted curls. Her little nose was red and dripping, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. Cameron reflected that he'd never seen any woman as beautiful, or desirable.

"Remind him he's alive. He still breathes, his heart and lungs work, he can walk and talk…show him other things work as well. We're all animals, ma'am. Even when our minds tell us to quit, our bodies fight to live. His body will respond whether or not his mind is so inclined."

Victoria flushed when she understood him, and Cameron permitted a smile to flicker as he nodded encouragingly. Then he stood and bowed over her hand from his towering height.

"May I visit the princess? While you go to your husband?"

**

_His mind, blessedly, spared him more recent memories for the most part. Let me dwell in the past, he might have prayed, let me relive those days when a wife's public infidelity was the worst tragedy to befall me, when my poor son with his crippled mind found joy as a man in the simple occupations of childhood. Even, let me relive his end, at peace with himself and the world, a first/last moment of perfect lucidity before he closed his eyes and slipped away._

_Anything, any earlier pain, was preferable to those lightning-flash images which threatened to destroy what sanity remained, his baby dancing on the edge of the precipice, arms akimbo, face turned up to the sun, then disappearing as though Heaven itself reached down to snatch her up. Or Hell, as he knew a split second later. The gentle sloping bank had been carved out by rushing floodwaters, leaving what remained unstable and prone to shedding great swaths of turf and soil into the looming ravine. In mere seconds, from the time he looked down to see she had left his side to that hellish last sight when she simply dropped out of view, more ground had been lost to the hungry whitewater current._

_Only single images had engraved themselves on his mind – shouting, his own scream that cracked something in his throat and left blood in his handkerchief still, sliding down the slick mud wall and throwing himself into the current, dodging debris, whole trees, rocks, even the remains of dead livestock, ignoring the force with which these projectiles slammed into him, seeing only his baby girl far ahead, tossed about like a rag doll, a scrap of discarded cloth._

_The men standing about, burly farmhands in hobnailed boots, ranged themselves along the bank, some climbing down, others shouting for rope. The girl, Clara, the only one of them clear-headed enough to race ahead on dry land before diving like an arrow into the exact spot where Broadwater channel rejoined the river itself._

_The utter nightmarish futility of trying to force passage through raging water determined to deny him, the mud underfoot sucking his feet with each step, the assault of water-borne branches as big as a man…strong hands pulling him out, dodging his own ineffectual blows…a distant indistinct figure raising shouts and cries as they recognized Clara, holding a lifeless burden in her arms, climbing, climbing, falling exhausted to the ground snarling refusal to surrender the child to any arms but her father's._

_The feel of that sodden, cold, still bundle, rendered heavy, unspeakably heavy, by the weight of wet clothing and…and…then snatched away once more as soon as his arms closed around her. Clara upending her with rough hands, slamming the body forcefully stomach down beatingpoundingthumping with violent sacrilege, desecrating the remains of the still lifeless child. Great gouts of dirty water burst forth, bringing with it clumps of wet leaves, vegetation. A hooked finger jabbed sharply in a tiny slack mouth, clearing her airway, the girl muttered, then pushing again up down up down up down with such rhythmic force ribs snapped._

_Finally, the body convulsed, so violently it seemed more bones would break, and it breathed on its own, dragging in desperate gulps of air. But It, because his baby never woke, never opened her eyes. His baby was gone. No matter what they said, despite the mad race to London, despite arms which took her away and washed and warmed her and tucked her in a dry bed, despite the doctors summoned delivered force-marched to her bedside, his baby never woke. He knew she was gone and what remained was only a shell, a torn battered bruised shell. His baby was gone, and with her everything he lived for. His negligence, treason; his stupid foolish pride, a capital crime. That moment of inattention, regicide._

_They could speak all they wished of hope, of the power of prayer and the healing power of time. Melbourne knew better. All that remained was to bury his child, then put a period to his own existence._

**

Melbourne's hand hesitated over the brandy decanter, its contents replenished without comment as they were every morning. But he pulled back, refusing to give in until the day was farther advanced.

He did not hear her approach, had not been aware of her presence as he so often was, until Victoria's hand came down on his shoulder. She curled her cool fingers around his neck, then lowered herself so their eyes were level, her own searching his. Melbourne smiled, forced himself to show warmth he could not feel. He knew he did not deserve her pity, her compassion, and would not cheat her of the affection she offered.

"I need you, Lord M." Her voice was whisper-soft, so that he had to force himself to listen closely to make sense of it. "I can't do this alone."

Two fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and he saw that she had already been crying. It surprised him, somehow – she was so strong, so composed. He needed her far, far more than she needed him, he always had. To him, she was air and cool water and sunshine and warmth. She was life itself and gave him that gift.

He needed her to need him, too – of that he was all too keenly aware. It was a truth he struggled against eternally, drawing sustenance from her need of him, while fighting to make her strong and independent enough that she might someday survive the loss of him.

She sat on his lap swiftly, the movement coming without warning, and put an arm around his neck so that he could see the pulse point in her milky white throat. So close, the warm scent of her skin reached him. How easy it would be, he thought…how easy….

"Victoria, I –" Melbourne didn't know what he wanted to say. To warn her away? To tell her he did not deserve warmth, affection? That he had forfeited it all when he allowed their daughter to -?

"Please, William, hold me. Just hold me. I can't be strong for both of us. I can't be strong for all of _them_. I need you so." She laid her cheek against his hair and he felt the tears falling in earnest. His own arms had gone around her of their own volition, and now they tightened, his hands holding her narrow back, her slender shoulders.

Melbourne felt all resolution dissolve, and the weakness flooding through his body was a humiliation. He soaked up her warmth and pressed his face into the hollow of her collarbone. Her hands stroked his hair and he felt her kisses dropping where they would, on his head, his ear. She soothed him, and he accepted the solace, the tenderness she provided. He didn't deserve it, but he would accept it nonetheless. If he had something, anything, she still needed, he would give it.

His mouth found her breast, her nipple, and he began suckling, like a babe. Freeing it from the bodice of her gown, he held it in his hand, stroking it gently with his thumb, examining it as though he had never seen this part of her before, and then lowered his head to nurse once more.

It was only when Victoria arched her back to offer herself that he realized what was happening. Part of his mind protested – _wrong, so wrong, wrong now, at this time –_ but another, animal part propelled him forward. Toward life, he thought, toward life.

Victoria raised herself and fumbled to release him and he hurriedly helped her. They worked together, giggling breathlessly when it became apparent his old armchair would not be conducive to lovemaking, no matter how erotic the prospect of such spontaneity. Instead he tumbled her onto the sofa – not ideal, but far better – and lifted her skirts. She was naked underneath, as women of a lower order most commonly were, and she opened for him, scissoring her legs to draw him in. When he pushed inside, filling her, and she tightly encased him, it felt as though he was reborn, dragged back into life almost unwillingly, toward heat and light and warmth, leaving the bleak gray of the grave behind.

Afterward, as uncomfortably as they were both positioned, his knee dropping deep into the crevice of the sofa, her head pillowed against one carved wooden arm, Melbourne did not pull out, instead propping himself on both arms to look into her face and his tears fell freely.

"I love you, Victoria. I've – I've been doing the best I could to hang on, but it hasn't been enough—"

"You are the best husband and the best father and the best friend in the world. But we are better together than separately. We will face this together. I meant what I said, I _need_ you and I can't do this alone." She paused and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Any of it. I can't do it without you."

* * *

* From [Passage East](https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/first/m/marshall-east.html) by Ian Marshall

 


	15. Chapter 15

Tensions in the Palace of Buckingham gradually eased after those first grim days, and like any vast peopled machine, its functions once more settled into their time-honored pattern. As the head steward observed in the servants' hall, people must eat and sleep, have their linens washed and changed and the business of government continues. But as everyone felt, whether they admitted to it or not, that equilibrium came top-down. The sight of Lord Melbourne at his wife's side, performing those small civilities which made their marriage a romantic ideal, of Her Majesty unabashedly leaning on his arm, holding his hand as they walked, deep in conversation, was as it should be, as everyone hoped it _would_ be, if tragedy ever struck them.

**

Melbourne knew that the day Victoria came to him was a turning point. In some part of his mind, that self-destructive inner voice still gnawed at him like a rat, compounded his self-loathing, shaming him further with the realization he could not deny himself comfort. But it was a small part, easily silenced. He tried to remain too busy for reflection but when idle moments caught him unaware and his thoughts turned inward he knew that he would be strong for Victoria and if in the process he found his own peace, even pleasure, then he would accept it gratefully. He knew too that the sharpest edge of grief would be blunted with time. If there was anything he excelled at, it was living with grief and the pain of loss.

Like some heavy burden which at first was crippling, impossible to carry, the weight of his mourning redistributed itself until he was able to bear it and remain upright. He was able to smile for her; and would be rewarded by the sight of her own sweet smile in return.

Victoria still spoke of hope, still performed the tasks of a mother, and Melbourne could no more deny her the solace of that belief than he would mock her religious faith. But he knew better, knew that the irrepressible little girl, bursting with life, her keen mind, her expansive vocabulary, the little legs which never rested, hands which never stopped grasping for each shiny object, was gone.

He had risen from the couch that day knowing he would live, knowing he _wanted_ to live, no matter how much it might hurt. He'd reached down, helped her rise, straightened her skirts with an almost finicky attention. She had wordlessly led him to her bedchamber, to the bed they shared, and they had shed clothing inexpertly, without the aid of helping hands, then fallen into the first restorative sleep either had had since the day of the accident.

Their limbs entwined, they comforted each other without knowing, one waking long enough to soothe the other before surrendering to sleep once more. They slept through the afternoon without sending word; slept through the evening, waking only to retrieve food and drink left outside the door. They ate voraciously, feeding each other in silence, laughing when crumbs drifted down to soil the pristine sheets. They'd slept to heal, knowing without thinking that it was time to lay down the yoke of responsibility and trust those who loved them to carry on.

When Melbourne woke in the night it was to see her precious face so close to his own he inhaled her sweet breath. Moving gingerly, he slid himself up and folded his arm around Victoria, cradling her against his chest.  Melbourne's head was clear, clearer than it had been for days, and he pushed away his own grief, guilt and remorse, pushed it into a compartment in the back of his mind and slammed the lid. She had been strong for him when he faltered and now he would once again be strong for his precious, his darling girl, his _Victoria_.

He accepted with the heaviest of hearts what he knew to be true, that his baby girl was gone, lost to them forever. He had no religious conviction, despite a vast reservoir of abstract knowledge, and little if any firm belief in an afterlife. Yet it seemed as impossible now as it ever had, that all the complex, wondrous components of a human _self_ could simply cease to exist. The Greeks had speculated on such matters at great length and a few had gone so far as to propose a cyclic return to human form they called _re-incarnation_. It seemed a pretty conceit, too neat, redolent of wish fulfillment and yet…and yet… Without succumbing entirely to such fanciful beliefs, it pleased him to imagine that spirits existed in some other realm, that his daughter, so like another untrammeled, untamable spirit, had been welcomed by those others he had loved and lost.

Victoria was the one for whom he feared. Melbourne knew himself capable of absorbing great grief and loss – after all, he had much experience to call on – and knew that no matter how deeply he mourned, he would go on. But she, Melbourne suspected, would only discover the true depth of her love for her child when she had to let go. His precious girl, his wife, his Queen, had no experience of loss and had never encountered any real thwarting of her will.

Motherhood had not come easily to his darling, at least not as it was defined by the society in which they lived. Victoria abhorred the physical discomfort of pregnancy, the overtaking of her body, the pain and the mess of birth. Melbourne, like most men if they were honest enough to admit it, found her even more desirable when her features softened. He considered her enlarged breasts and the gentle spreading of her hips erotic. Knowing that it was his seed swelling in her increased his lust even as it diminished hers. When their children had been born it was William Lamb who hung over the cradle, usurped the wet nurses and minders, who spent long peaceful hours rocking their babies, cooing and humming. It was his voice which soothed fussiness, his presence the newborns came to associate with security and comfort.

Victoria loved her children, he knew without a doubt, because they were hers and it was incumbent upon her to love them, but even more because they were his, tangible proof of their bond though none could admit it. But he had heard the gossip, had seen the critical looks, and he roundly cursed the mores of a society which expected fathers to be stern, punctilious, remote figures who showed no more than _pro forma_ interest in their heirs and women who must display warmth, tenderness, overflowing sentimentality in precisely the measure others deemed appropriate and "natural _"._

 _Why?_ he mused. Was he, or Billy Cameron, who never missed an opportunity to cradle an infant or carry a toddler on his shoulders,  _unnatural,_  less _manly_ because they were unabashedly demonstrative with the royal children? Melbourne thought not; he himself, and even more so the big Irish soldier, received more than their share of coquettish glances and fawning flirtatious attention from the girls at Court when they dandled a child on their knee. Yet Victoria was considered unnatural, even unwomanly for her more distant parenting. And it was that lack, defined by others, which would magnify her grief in mourning.

Entertaining such thoughts made Melbourne more determined to protect her and ease her way through the inevitability which loomed over them.

**

The business of government continued. A new government only increased the pace and the busyness. Victoria attended Privy Council with Lord Melbourne at her side, she received Lord Russell and provided token ratification of his ministerial appointments. She reminded him at each audience of her impatience to know what measures could be taken to provide relief to her Irish subjects before the harshness of winter. Palmerston continued his habit of securing separate audience with his Queen, forgoing the tradition of letting his premier represent his views. His large personality and loud booming voice, as irritating to the nerves as it could be, brought much-needed relief to the somber mood. Always he asked about his niece, and which confirmed to Victoria what Melbourne had already told her, that as overbearing as the man could be, he had a good heart and that fiery nature, when tempered, was impossible to dislike.

Poring over the Devon Commission Report, originally presented to the Queen some months before, consumed Victoria's every spare moment. Melbourne had been awed by her work ethic from her first days on the throne, and the sight of her diligently studying some matter from every angle was nothing new. She would spread out the pertinent documents and read as a student might, underlining and taking copious notes, pulling forward one, then another reference volume, jotting down further sources she wished to peruse, making lists of questions she wished to ask of her ministers and advisers. Even those questions were never put forth in their first draft; Victoria would write, rewrite and amend until they were admirably succinct, sharply focused.

The Royal Commission on Occupation of Land had been appointed by Sir Robert Peel to research the problems with land leases in Ireland. It was formed by the queen's proclamation issued in 1843. Such a commission sent a signal to the Irish that the Crown had taken an interest in their plight and had the effect of depriving fiery radicals like O'Connell and his ilk of their most ardent supporters. This was the first time that a British government had taken a step towards reforming the unfair leases, and so long as there was hope of change no one wanted open rebellion.

Even as he admired the utilitarian political value, the optics of such an appointment, Melbourne knew placating the radicals was not his wife's intent. She genuinely cared for the condition of her subjects and had come to see it as her duty to wear the mantle of moral leadership as the conscience of her nation.

When Russell disingenuously quoted Melbourne's own dismissive words back to the Queen, under the misguided assumption she would naturally cede to her own husband's views, he was sharply reminded otherwise. Melbourne only smiled with gentle amusement and clarified, for Her Majesty's benefit, that surely the honorable gentleman recalled he had spoken of radicals with a vested interest and not the impartial free press, when he'd said that any report of the woes of the Irish must be halved to be believed. Russell had retorted without consideration, that perhaps the Queen might send the Viscount Melbourne to observe conditions firsthand.

Victoria's lips had tightened with her most extreme show of displeasure and answered her Prime Minister most curtly, almost angrily, dismissing his preposterous suggestion. Queen Victoria angry was a sight which made even well-weathered senior ministers quail and no more was said, but Melbourne did not miss the slightly derisive glance Russell cast in his direction.

Melbourne let the matter slide. He might have wished his wife, if not his Queen, temper her immediate disavowal of any suggestion hinting at his own participation in matters of State, but it was of little importance in the current climate.

Each day Melbourne accompanied Victoria to their daughter's sickroom – for he could no longer call it a nursery – and stood by her while she sat at bedside, reading from the book of German fairy-tales her own mother had read from, stroking the still brow, straightening already tidy bed covers which needed no attention. Baroness Lehzen ensured that the child was bathed and dressed in the finest frilly night dresses. To Melbourne, as much as he honored the good Lehzen's intent, it was an abomination at worst, useless at best, to adorn that still form as though she were a life-size doll. He would have given anything to turn back the clock and make amends for a moment's inattention, but to pretend that this slow lingering death was anything other than mourning delayed was nearly intolerable. He bore it only for love of Victoria.

The nursing sisters remained. They permitted the endless stream of visitors, those who read aloud, those who prayed, those whose conversation was light and carefree, those who were solemn and those who were giddy. It was not their custom to permit one of their patients such an excess of stimulation when rest was most beneficial. But that was what the physicians had ordered, and to these women, this order devoted to the care of the sick, physicians were their priests, the healing arts their sacrament.

Most troublesome of all was the big, gregarious lout who came in always accompanied by a bevy of pretty girls. The Queen's maids of honor, they served no purpose in a sick room except pretend momentary interest in the sick girl, and flirt with the big soldier. He extended his good-natured, overly loud raillery even to the pious sisters on duty, while they tightened their lips and scowled disapproval. Worst of all, he picked up the sleeping child and carried her against his shoulder, hopping about as though dancing a reel, standing by the window so the sunshine illuminated the poor babe's face. If, when they demanded he put her down and he laughingly complied, one little fist was tightly clutching a thick clump of the Irishman's long hair, her nurses did not see fit to report it to her mother the Queen.

**

Lord Melbourne sat turning the pages of a new London paper, its masthead bearing the name of Charles Dickens. He had not initially appreciated the fellow's novels, focusing as Disraeli's did on the worst of the worst, beggars, pickpockets and thieves. Dickens at least wrote more amusing prose, but for all that Melbourne had little interest in reading about a class of people in whom he took no interest. The paper was a new venture. Where Mr. Dickens had previously been a Parliamentary reporter writing fiendishly clever articles published by The Mirror of Parliament, then the True Sun and the Morning Chronicle. After his first failed effort at publishing his own weekly paper, he had recently taken on the post of editor of The Daily News. It was this paper which would soon print a series of profiles of the more recognizable names in both parties, containing within each piece an inventory of their ties to the Rothschild banks.

Victoria had carried her reading with her, and continued finding places to underline, margins to meticulously write notes. When her eyelids grew heavy she stretched and yawned, finally setting the pile aside. Melbourne glanced up, then took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Done with it for tonight, my love?" he asked. Victoria tilted her head beguilingly and leaned toward him, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"I am. I can think of far more enjoyable things to do, with the most handsome man in the world in my bed." Melbourne laughed softly and let his own papers drop to the floor.

"Such as?" He asked, reaching over to turn extinguish the light. In the silent communication of marriage, he knew her soft high-necked gown signaled little amorous intent, although gowns could be changed, or removed…

"Such as…tell me why men like Mr. O'Connell think political disruption and speechmaking will feed hungry children and repair leaking roofs." Victoria found her favored position, feet between his legs, one arm laid across his midsection as though to reassure herself of his continued presence. _As though I might disappear in the night_ , the whimsical notion made him huff a small silent laugh.

"Surely you don't intend to make me discuss my very aggravating nemesis _now_?" he protested teasingly, settling his own arm comfortably around her shoulders. He let his fingers dance lightly down her arm until they settled on one soft breast, then playfully tweaked her nipple until it rose and hardened. Victoria shifted as though to move away, then settled back in place and returned his hand to its former occupation, her own venturing farther down, finding him. Neither were committed to the act of love at that moment, content to fondle and caress and accept whatever followed.

"I should go down to the nursery and look in on Lily," she said thoughtfully. "I did not have time to return, and I want to be sure they managed to get her to swallow her dinner."

Her nurses stood ready to assist, but most generally the Baroness, the Duchess of Kent or Victoria herself had the greatest success, holding the unresponsive, slack child against their bosom and trickling sustenance down her throat. She would swallow reflexively more often than not, but it took a great deal of patience to ensure sufficient nutrition to sustain life. _Or what passed for life_ , Melbourne told himself. Thick gruel, tiny morsels of bread softened in rich marrow broth, even soft mashed carrots and turnips thinned to the consistency of liquid all relied on the loving assistance of her caregivers and what the physician referred to as the body's reflexive action.

"Your mother will be with her now." The Duchess of Kent slept beside her granddaughter, as she had once done to keep her own daughter safe from the terrors of the night. Victoria nodded doubtfully.

"Of course, she has, and Mama has been wonderful with her, but you don't think I should check on her myself? I can run down there and back –"

"As you wish, my love, but there is no need. You know your mother has the nurses to assist her and she will call if-"

They were both startled by a sudden sound, that of the outer door being flung open with such great force it hit the wall. A violent shudder racked his wife's shoulders, and Melbourne squeezed them tightly, reassuringly, before swinging his own legs out of bed. Feet finding his slippers, he reached for the dressing gown he had earlier laid at the foot of the big canopied bed.

The stout closed door of their own inner chamber opened before Melbourne could reach it, and the Duchess of Kent appeared, white-faced and trembling so violently her curl papers fluttered like autumn leaves in a strong wind.

"Drina, Lord Melbourne, you must- you must come at once. Elizabeth –"

Melbourne laid a strong, reassuring hand on the woman's back to steady her and glanced back at Victoria's white still face. _So, it is now_ , he thought. _One more night would not have been too much to ask, but so be it._ He showed his mother-in-law all the gentle compassion he could muster, but every instinct clamored to go to Victoria.

"Elizabeth, she – "

"She has gone," Melbourne finished for her, in a soft hoarse voice. He was deprived of air, his own chest felt as though it resisted all movement and he threw back his shoulders, determined to draw in a deep breath and steady himself. The pain of finality cut through him like a knife, but it mattered little. Victoria, Victoria was all that mattered.

"No! She is awake. She asks for you."

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

The princess was so still that when her parents first burst into the room Lord Melbourne thought the Duchess had been mistaken. But then in the dim light he saw that indeed his daughter's eyes were open, eyes as wide and blue as her mother and grandmother's. Even better, they tracked his progress across the floor, fixed on his face. Even before he reached the bed he saw her hand move, fingers flutter as though she would reach for him.

Melbourne spontaneously uttered the first heartfelt prayer of his life, even as he stepped aside, pushing Victoria ahead so she reached the bed first. His wife sat and picked up that little hand, her eyes eagerly assessing. The Duchess of Kent stood beside Melbourne, trembling and overcome with emotion, and without thinking Melbourne drew her into a reassuring embrace.

He heard the softest of voices say _Papa_ and bit his lip, wishing for Victoria's sake it had been _Mama,_ for she had kept the faith and earned the reward. When his wife summoned him forward he gently released her mother and obeyed.

The child wanted to communicate, or so it seemed, but her throat resisted any attempt to make sounds. Victoria gestured impatiently for water, then raised her daughter and trickled tiny amounts into her mouth although she clearly was desperate for more.

The nurse tried several times to intervene but was waved off, first by Lord Melbourne and then, more harshly, by Victoria. She supported her child's negligible weight against her breast, stroking the fine dark hair so like her own until, exhausted by the meager exertions, she felt the girl's body grow heavy and limp once more and laid her back against the pillows. Throughout, that little hand, nearly translucent from weight loss and illness, reached for her father.

Melbourne felt as though he were locked in place, unable, undeserving, unwilling to impose himself in a tableau which belonged rightfully to mother and child. But Victoria's insistence compelled him up and both mother and father sat on the bed with their child between them. He took the little hand that reached for his, her gesture almost comically imperious even in its fragility, and reached his arm around so that he could hold his wife and daughter both.

The Duchess of Kent wiped her eyes, smiling, and crept silently from the room.

* * *

From the first day she awakened, physicians counselled cautious optimism and they were proven correct. When her breathing became even more laborious and was accompanied by an unpleasant rasping whistle they diagnosed infiltration of the bronchi and discoursed amongst themselves on what the French were beginning to call lobular pneumonia. When she again lay listless and passive without even the energy to complain of her confinement, and her lips took on a bluish cast, they informed Melbourne that they suspected the lung infection had infiltrated her heart sac and called the complication pericarditis.

He listened closely to every word, whether it was directed at him or part of the huddled consultations they held amongst themselves. They considered the princess, her physical resources already diminished by her injuries and lengthy coma, to be at the third stage of pneumonic disease, at the end of which would come death or, less predictably, a seemingly spontaneous recovery which was in fact the body healing itself by expelling the infectious matter. Lord Melbourne clung to this last possibility and watched his daughter progress through the stages the doctors jointly prognosed.

Her breathing became erratic, so shallow he leaned forward to hear it and then suddenly interrupted by a few great gulps for air. The nursing sisters percussed her as the doctors ordered, sitting her up and thumping a cupped hand on her back in an exacting process which encouraged the thick secretions to be expelled. In between such spells she tossed restlessly, her limbs cold and clammy while her little torso burned to the touch as though consumed by inner fire.  Three days, they had opined. Within three days, the patient expired or began to recover. _Someday soon_ , Melbourne was told, _we will discover a medicine to assist the body in fighting such infections, but now we have nothing to offer_. Sulfur had been tried, and other nostrums, but no one believed in such caustic treatments of last resort in the case of so small a child. Prayer, if you believed, and your will to strengthen her own.

That, Melbourne could give, and did. She did not again lapse into unconsciousness, and her eyes never left her father's face. He talked for hours, told her about the family from whom she descended through his line. Talked to her as he would to his grown heir, if he had one, of the legendary grandmother for whom she was named. _When she was sixty-one and the poet only four-and-twenty, Byron was smitten with her and had said she was the best friend he ever had._ That last made him proud at the distance of thirty years, no matter how he'd felt at the time. Told her about the Milibankes, and how they had earned their title supporting Charles in exile.

He told her how much she was like that grandmother, and as he said it he knew it was so. His mother, with an indomitable will, and wit and a complete determination to have her own way, for the good of her family and those she loved.

"But she must wait to meet you, my girl. Wait a good long time, for I am not relinquishing you yet. You will carry on her line, have sons of your own and love and spoil them as she did me and my brothers. You will have grandchildren and live to be as magnificent at sixty as she was."

The fever spiked on the third night, just as the doctors predicted it would, and then the Queen was sent for although previously they had jointly advised she stay away out of an abundance of caution, for the theories of contagion were poorly defined and the expulsion of infected matter might well pose a threat for the sovereign.

Melbourne felt a vague sort of irritation of the nerves when Victoria swept in, imperious, while the nurses in attendance stood back and swept into low curtsies, their heads bowed as she passed. This was _his_ place, his time, and even her mother was an intruder of sorts. That notion evaporated as soon as it was formed, and Melbourne knew it to arise only from his intense focus on willing their daughter's recovery and his own complete exhaustion.

Lily's face was a deep brick red, moist with perspiration, and she had been thrashing about, seemingly restrained only by the strength of her grip on her father's hand. But when Victoria almost matter-of-factly laid her own hand on her daughter's brow the child's restlessness instantly eased and she turned into the touch. Melbourne shifted as if to move, but Victoria remained standing, stroking her child's fevered brow, tenderly pushing sweat-matted hair back.

He marveled at the power of a mother's touch, at the instinctive response of a child to her mother. Gradually Lily's lids grew heavy and she drifted off into an uneasy slumber, and then Victoria turned toward her husband. With nearly the same soothing competence she stroked the back of his head and drew him forward, so he could rest his brow on her flat stomach. He let his arms go around her and clung as though he were the child, her child, while she held him. Almost exactly thirty-six hours after the worst of that third stage of her pneumonia commenced by the doctors' reckoning, her fever broke for what would be the last time and her healing began in earnest.

Princess Elizabeth's recovery was gradual and not without setbacks. She was still wracked by coughing fits, her body's attempt to dispel the sputum which clogged her lungs. By the end of that week she seemed almost herself most days, restless with enforced confinement to her bed, demanding in convalescence. But by evening her fever would begin to rise once more and at nightfall she would toss restlessly, her hair damp and eyes glittering too brightly.

She would only be soothed by her father and cry so piteously if he were not present that even the most stalwart of nurses would implore someone, anyone, to find Lord Melbourne.

Once he had his daughter back, Melbourne could hardly bear to leave her side, any more than she would relinquish him. It was easier during the day, when the nursery was bustling with activity and Lily's attention could be diverted by her brother bringing his toy trains, by Lehzen beginning the rudimentary lessons she had devised, and by the many servants and visitors who passed through. While she was alert, chattering and busy Melbourne could reconcile his absence from the nursery and Victoria's expectation he would resume the activities they shared. She even suggested he go into town, to his club, to the House on some pretext or another.

Autumn and the London social season was far enough advanced that the most celebrated annual event was nearly upon them. Nearly a thousand guests were invited to the most elaborate, festive of State fetes, including the entire Diplomatic Corps, government officials, and senior members of the Royal Family. Because the Diplomatic Corps were accredited to the Crown and not the government, the occasion was held at Buckingham Palace with the sovereign as host. Naturally the departments of State and Foreign Service took the lead in planning, but all the Court was busily engaged in one capacity or another under the direction of the Lord Chancellor.

Melbourne, despite having taken part in every Diplomatic Reception for well over thirty years as guest, minister and, in the more recent past as a _de facto_ host, had completely forgotten the date of the ball was looming until he finally noticed the frenetic pace of preparations all around them. While Victoria naturally had far more weighty matters of State to attend than one reception, it nonetheless placed considerable demands on her time and attention and Melbourne made allowances for that when her tone grew short and she sometimes grew impatient with him.

He made sure when he could that they at least began the day together. He would hastily wash and shave and don fresh clothing, then join Victoria and the Household in the sunny breakfast room. It was there he had the first stark reminder of how soon the Reception would be, when her ladies and equerries and the gentlemen of his own household could speak of nothing else. When the Duchess of Sutherland graciously asked his own opinion on some thematic element, Melbourne deftly avoided betraying his own ignorance, and when she more coquettishly asked whether he would again honor his custom of having a decorative waistcoat made to complement the Queen's gown he was saved from having to confess unawareness of what Victoria might be planning to wear by Emma Portman. That lady rolled her eyes disdainfully.

"Of course not, Harriet. Lord Melbourne will be forced to wear the Court uniform. Tradition dictates it thus. If William would concede to receive the Garter, it would give him an alternative but no sash, no tailcoat."

He laughed easily at her sally, appreciating her intervention, and leaned forward to address Victoria.

"And you, ma'am, what is your opinion? Do you prefer I wear the blasted Court uniform, as heavy and hot as it is, or shall I wear tie and tails?"

He detected a momentary impatience – she knew, of course, that he had no recollection of any discussion they might have had on the subject – but she recovered nicely.

"I always prefer you in the Court uniform, Lord M," Victoria said smoothly. "No one wears it as well as you."

When they were dispersing Emma Portman managed to walk out at his side. She looked around to be sure they were not overheard.

"Do you want me to remind you what Her Majesty has had made for the Reception?" Without waiting for an answer, his old friend continued. "A bronze changeable silk, with a very distinctive metallic sheen. She was being fitted for it two days ago when you were in the Yellow Drawing Room. You said you admired it."

"Ah, yes. I remember it well," Melbourne nodded, his green eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment, knowing he could joke with her privately.

"And if I told you I just lied, and the dress is puce velvet?" Emma returned his humor in kind.

"I would call you a wretch for mocking me. Now go away and let me be private with my wife for five minutes. Keep them all distracted. Throw them an equerry."

"I believe that is what your bedchamber is for, William. To be _private_. As you would know if you visited occasionally." Emma's voice was a shade tarter than he was comfortable with and he felt rebuked.

"Emma, Lily is still convalescing…" Melbourne said, aware as he answered that he sounded overly defensive.

Lady Portman engaged the other attendants in conversation and assigned the equerries several small tasks, so that Melbourne was able to steer Victoria into a secluded alcove. As soon as the curtain dropped behind them he laid his hands on her hips and pulled her close.

"I miss you, my little love," he said, nuzzling at her ear lobe. And he did, in truth – his body's response told him as much, and his longing for their other bedtime rituals likewise gave him a strong pang of longing.

"I miss you. It's been weeks since you came to bed." She sighed. "How did Lily fare overnight?" Melbourne appreciated her quiet acceptance of his need to watch over their frail, fragile child. For the sake of his conscience as much as any remaining medical need, he conceded.

"She slept through the night, only stirring once."

He felt the unasked question loom between them. _Then why don't you return to our bed_? Victoria did not ask. Melbourne was beyond grateful that she knew him so well, that she understood his need to make some sort of amends for the lapse which had brought them all to this point. _When will she be well enough that you can be a husband again, not only a father?_ She did not ask. Melbourne wanted, so badly, ached, to resume the normal cadence of their married life. _But not yet_.

Still he craved her touch, needed to breathe in her essence, to feel those private places which were his alone. To have her hands, her mouth, on him. _Here_?

Her skirts were full and beneath them, layered petticoats and a tightly laced corset posed yet another barrier. Still, he pushed against her as best he could, and let his fingertips find the warm swelling of breasts pushed up by her stays. Victoria turned her face up to receive his kiss while cunningly sliding the flat of her hand across the front of his trousers, then down, cupping his sac and using her thumb to tease him. _Here?_ He entertained momentary hope of relief, quickly dismissed as impractical in this curtained alcove large enough only for a narrow settee.

"We have 775 rooms in Buckingham House, Lord M. I think this is not one of them." Victoria laughed softly, not unkindly and stepped back out of reach. "You had better compose yourself. Your condition is most obvious." He thought the warmth in her eyes and the sight of her little pink tongue wetting her lips a good indication she was not unmoved, and the awareness only increased his own discomfort. As though she read his mind, Victoria's own expression became decidedly seductive. "I think of you when you don't come to me at night. I become quite…discomposed, as well. So much so that I must take matters into my own hands, so to speak."

 _Minx!_ She was taunting him, and he liked it. "Oh? Tell me more. What do you do when you miss me?"

"You taught me very well and I am an apt pupil. I think you can imagine…but if you wish to know, come and see for yourself." He enjoyed the back-and-forth of this heady, erotic word play and would have continued, except voices grew louder on the other side of that damned incompetent drape.

Melbourne smiled into her eyes, desiring her greatly, liking her as much as he loved her. "You understand, nothing could keep me away from you –"

"Except my chief rival for your affections," she finished, her tone light, teasing, but Melbourne suspected she felt those words more truly than she let on.

"Except our daughter, my darling. _Our_ daughter. Your very image. You are the one who can soothe her by your very presence. I only – I am afraid to – I want to be sure she's out of danger –"

He thought Victoria would say more, but she only nodded once, then took his hand and raised it to her lips.

"William, I understand, truly I do. You have nothing to make up for and I do wish you would put that notion out of your head but…do as you must. I trust the nurses who care for our child, and Lehzen, and Mama, to look out for her but I trust _you_ , as her father, to do what you think best."

* * *

He had intended to ride with her at late afternoon, and they made plans to meet on the back terrace and walk down to the stables together. Most of the afternoon Melbourne spent in the library, reading over the first of the reports filtering back from Hardinge while Victoria worked nearby, meticulously writing out the Letters Patent for those ambassadors she would dispatch to their new posts. Melbourne had advised Victoria at the time of his own resignation, that upon a change of government a very great and sudden change of many ministers at foreign courts was an evil to be avoided. He felt quietly gratified when Victoria repeated that opinion to Russell and Lord Palmerston as her own, adding as her decided belief that signaling such a general change of policy disturbs settled agreements as shaking confidence in the Government of England, and giving it a character of uncertainty and instability.

“Naturally it is the first inclination of every new premier to remake the entire system in his interest with his loyalists, and to discourage that was a matter of paramount importance.” Those had been Melbourne’s words and she had used them with her new First Lord and Foreign Secretary and identified only a small number of those who would be recalled from their posts and most of those because the incumbents had expressed a desire to retire. Victoria took her independence as seriously as Melbourne did so it was especially gratifying when after consideration, she assimilated some considered opinion of his into her philosophy of good statecraft.

When they parted, Victoria with the intention of changing into her habit and Melbourne to check in on their daughter before riding out, it was with the firm intention of meeting in one half hour.

The Princess Elizabeth would have none of it. She raised such a determined outcry that even her stalwart chief nurse expressed concern that the unrestrained frenzy of shrieks, sobbing and throwing any object within reach would cause a resurgence of fever. When Lily's cries grew so agonized that she began coughing in earnest and expelling some blood with the inevitable mucous, then culminated in vomiting, Melbourne knew he could not leave her in such a state. Lily would not relent, he knew, until she was assured of his continued presence and so he regretfully sent word to Victoria.

As soon he agreed to remain Lily calmed herself, until only great shuddering gasps remained of her crying fit. Melbourne walked back and forth with the girl in his arms as though she were an infant rather than a child of three. Finally, he cajoled her into relinquishing her grip on his neck so that Nurse could make her presentable once again and help her to wash for dinner.

Passing the windows overlooking the terrace, he paused, seeing Victoria in her habit walking toward the stables. Beside her was a man, gesticulating as he walked, talking with great animation. As Melbourne watched she turned her face up, and it seemed from a distance that she was much amused by whatever they discussed. Annoyed out of all proportion, Melbourne turned away. 


	17. Chapter 17

Melbourne enjoyed his ride through the park as much as he had a day spent amongst his friends and colleagues. He guided his well-mannered mount at a slow pace, passing slower vehicles whose occupants were out for a promenade, tipping his hat in greeting to pedestrians who hailed him, pausing to exchange greetings with a multitude of old acquaintances, Whig cousins and well-wishers.

He thrived on such pleasant interaction, in both political and societal spheres – if those could be separated for a cradle Whig and career politician. Melbourne enjoyed talking and was well known as a charming bon vivant, famed as much for _bon mots_ and the aphorisms which peppered his discourse as he was for his insouciant manner. Had he been told that he excited as much admiration and envy for the appearance he presented, as he was universally liked for his ready appreciation of the ridiculous and disavowal of pretension, Melbourne would have been ready with a dismissive smirk.

Gentlemen of his own age, who had spent their young manhood with him at Trinity College and were now infirm with gout and the general deterioration of one entering their sixth decade, dismissed his effortless appearance of a man twenty years younger with sneering references to a life lived devoid of responsibility. Melbourne had in fact spent his years in the House and two terms a Prime Minister appearing to care little and work less. Only those closest to him knew how diligently he burned the midnight oil, and only those who thought to have their way contrary to his on some matter of government learned to their amazed disadvantage how entirely prepared Lord Melbourne was to refute any skewering of facts.

The wives and daughters of these same gentleman would have told a different story, had they dared – and dare they did, in their reading circles and afternoon calls. William Lamb, the Second Viscount Melbourne, was universally considered the comeliest of men, with his head of tousled curls only lightly dusted with silver, strong manly features, a Roman nose and quite _kissable_ mouth. What's more, they whispered, those large striking heavy-lidded eyes always appeared to be contemplating something quite _naughty_ , when they looked up after kissing one's hand. Almost as if he _knew_ what I was thinking, one lady had whispered to another as soon as Melbourne rode on. Both looked after him longingly, the straight back under an exquisitely tailored dark blue velvet coat, thighs outlined under snug tan trousers so temptingly it made one quite envy the horse whose flanks they clasped.

Lord Melbourne had in fact conversed with the greatest propriety after kissing hands, discoursing as anyone might on the events of the day, remarking with polite if disinterested concern in response to a conversational gambit. But if the hand he promptly released veritably itched to stroke that thick hair, to stroke his chest under a blue velvet coat, Melbourne only ignored inviting glances, lips wetted in anticipation.

A bright November sun hung low in the sky before he could safely permit his horse to trot in earnest. Behind him, a nondescript attendant who might have been a clerk if not for excessively broad shoulders under black broadcloth stretched tight, remained far enough back to remain unobtrusive, yet close enough to provide the protection due a Queen Regnant's consort.

Once past the heaviest traffic Melbourne permitted his attention to wander. A part of his mind went, as it had all day, as it usually did, back to Victoria, waiting for him at Buckingham. That he _had_ a young wife of twenty-five years waiting eagerly for his return was astounding enough, and not something to which he ever entirely grew accustomed. That he had found the missing piece of his heart for which he'd spent a lifetime searching, and found her in the unlikeliest of places, would ever be a source of wonder, a miracle which defied close examination. Yet it could not have been otherwise; if such a phrase held any potency to a confirmed cynic, it said everything to the idealist within: They were meant to be.

Even riding through the far end of the park, having run the gauntlet of every well-born Londoner who could find the means to ride and be seen at such a popular time of day, Melbourne stirred when he remembered the night they had spent.

He felt a brief flush of pride, and laughed at himself for doing so, at just how well matched in such matters they were. He had had the illimitable satisfaction of awakening her to womanhood, and with Victoria he understood for the first time why men set such store on virginity, if there were not matters of inheritance and primogeniture to consider. In the full flush of young manhood, and on into his middle years, Melbourne had always preferred experienced bed partners and found ingénues distinctly uninspiring. But Victoria – ah, Victoria!

One of those nights, not common even in an entirely happy marriage between two compatible lovers, when the pleasure they shared was so heady and varied and long-lasting that the eastern sky was lightening before they rested in each other's arms. Not bad for a man of my age, he reflected, smirking, rather proud of himself. Experience matters more than simple physical prowess. That, and worshiping the woman in his bed. Reveling in her adoration of his body, her responsiveness the greatest aphrodisiac of all. Recalling her moans, the mewling whimper when she bit her hand to stifle a louder outcry…remembering the taste of her, near-frantic protests when he prolonged the moment of her rapture.

Seeing the great iron gates drawing closer, Melbourne shook his head to clear it of such untimely thoughts and touched his heels to the horse's sides.

**

"Liam is settling in well with his tutor," Victoria observed. Melbourne thought he detected the merest hint of uncertainty in her voice, which echoed and ratified his own.

Victoria sat before her mirrored dressing table while her dresser arranged her hair atop her head while Melbourne lounged at his ease.

"And Lehzen was correct when she said that Lily would not be nearly so forceful in her outbursts if we were not there to impress." Melbourne grinned sheepishly at Victoria's generous choice of words.

"You mean, if I am not there to give in to her," he corrected.

"That too. At least, you see that we can get back to normal without endangering her health. She is well and now will learn, as I did, that she can not rule by sheer force of will. Darling, you are the best father in the world and she knows that as well as anyone. So…it was not too painful to relinquish her care to Lehzen and return to our bed?" Victoria's own grin was deliberately provocative and Melbourne spared the maid a single glance before leaning forward and kissing his wife's plump, tempting pursed lips.

"It was good to get out of the nursery and back to town to hear the speeches. Of course, no one was talking of anything besides today's _Daily News_. I went to the coffee house. Dizzy was the first to accost me, but not the last by far."

The first issue of Mr. Dickens' weekly series profiling prominent members of the government had been printed and as quickly grabbed up by those who were as eager to see the affairs of their fellows laid out as they were to reassure themselves their own names were spared. The result fell somewhere in between, as far as Melbourne could tell – and as he had hoped. Dickens was a liberal but no revolutionary, progressive in his views while having no sympathy for out-and-out radicals. His wicked humor tempered what might have been brutal in the hands of a less fair-minded journalist, and while certainly the details of who obtained what extremely advantageous loans, and whose fortune had trebled within a year of taking their seats in the Commons, might have been used to discredit those profiled, Dickens' approach was to demonstrate that since everyone participated in the distribution of Rothschild largesse it was the system itself rather than any unfortunate individual which should be examined. _Reform_ , as little as Melbourne liked the word itself and all it implied, must be undertaken with the lightest of hands, and no better place to begin than by equitably shining a light on the buying and selling of influence.

"Mr. Disraeli," Victoria repeated the name of the _Young England_ er. "What a curious man he is. You recall when I first met him? He began by telling me he would take your place someday."

"And well he might. I don't see either Party supporting him whole-heartedly, which means they don't oppose him universally either, and he's entirely driven by ambition and desire for recognition. Those are promising traits for anyone who wishes to rise to the pinnacle of government."

Victoria raised her eyes to his face, looking so surprised that Melbourne laughed.

"You are surprised? Pray, ma'am, don't judge all your ministers by my unfortunate example. I rather took to the office once I held it the second time – once I became _your_ minister – but being premier was never my ambition."

"What was your ambition, Lord M? When you were a – when you were –" Victoria stumbled over her words and he saw the flush pinking her pretty cheeks.

"When I was your age? When I was a young man?" He was amused by her discomposure. Still a child in some ways, he thought. _My precious girl._ "I am aware."

Melbourne shot his cuffs, arranging the snowy white starched fabric, and needlessly adjusted his coat. He had dressed for dinner in a very short time, only so he could join Victoria in her boudoir and spend a few moments alone with her – alone save for a discreet lady's maid who went about her business in a competent, self-effacing manner.

"I was never ambitious," he answered finally, reflectively. "While Pen was alive I thought I was condemned to practice law. My mother insisted I find an open seat in the House, and thus began my political career. I had some little notoriety, from a paper written whilst I was still at Edinburgh, that Fox was generous enough to read aloud. I suppose I showed some small talent for the pen, but I had none whatsoever for public speaking. I might have been content to putter along, spending as much time as I could in my library and in the normal pursuits of society. My mother and Caro agreed on that much – that I could never hope for a retiring sort of life. They would have me make a name for myself…" Melbourne shrugged, smiling tenderly at the memory. "…and so, I complied. I've ever been putty in the hands of a strong woman."

He picked up Victoria's hand from its resting place in her lap and lifted it to his lips.

"And look where it got me. Had I not gone along and made my way no matter how unwillingly in government, I might have been forced to climb in through a window like Boy Jones. Not a role which would have suited me, as I am averse to such athleticism. Nor would I have been content to steal and lurk. I much preferred being able to walk in through the front entrance as Prime Minister and walk out utterly smitten by the love of my life."

Victoria obediently turned her head this way and that, as Miss Skerrett made the final adjustments to her hair. The maid sprayed a light mist of fragrance on her bare shoulders and went to the leather jewel case.

"Well?" Victoria rose and tilted her head beguilingly, spreading her arms and pirouetting in front of Melbourne. Her gown was a dark burgundy red and fitted her exactly, showing her flat abdomen and a narrow waist which was the envy of women who found themselves confined on a regular basis. That she was not was the result of some calculation and much creative exploration of the many delightful alternatives to that act which led to repeated childbearing and aged women prematurely.

Melbourne slid his palms over her sides, savoring the smooth silk as much as the warm flesh beneath her corset. _His_ , was the inevitable thought, accompanied by a sense of deep gratitude. _No_ , it could not have been otherwise.

Victoria smiled prettily up at him and laid her own hands flat on his waistcoat, tracing the silk, smiling. One of Melbourne's small vanities was to choose his waistcoats and cravats to complement his wife's gowns.

"Mine, Lord M," she said pleased, tasting the word. "All mine."

**

"Lord and Lady Spencer, Lord Howard, Lord and Lady Fortescue and the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. None of Your Majesty's male relations, and only Her Highness your cousin. Baron and Baroness de Rothschild. Mr. and Mrs. Disraeli. Herr Mendelssohn and his sister Fanny. They will perform later, from his Songs Without Words.  And the American, Miss Eagle, who is accompanied by her father, George Bernardo Eagle. He is a _stage magician_ who calls himself 'The Wizard of the South."

Victoria and Lord Melbourne walked down the corridor together, her hand in his, while Lady Portman recited the list of guests already assembled and awaiting their sovereign. Victoria's eyes sparkled with anticipation, while Melbourne did his best to subdue the amusement which threatened to overcome him in most undignified fashion.

"Lord Howard, the Norfolks…and a pair of American magicians," he smirked. "Pray tell, Emma, who arranged the entertainments for tonight? Do I have you to thank for enlivening what would otherwise be an intolerably boring evening?"

"You do not," Emma Portman snapped back. "You have Her Majesty's previous Chamberlain. The autumn schedule was posted months in advance, you might recall. Consider it a parting gift from the Tories."

"Emma, do not misunderstand. I am delighted at the prospect." Melbourne could resist no longer and laughed aloud, squeezing Victoria's hand conspiratorially.

"I think it will be quite interesting. We have never had a spiritualist at Court before."

"I agree wholeheartedly. Your Miss Eagle can hardly offer worse or more tedious entertainment than the harpists and sopranos one generally finds in a corner of our drawing room when guests are present."

Melbourne was no lover of music and while Victoria differed, being inordinately fond of the opera, she concurred that absent the spectacle and grandeur of the stage even the greatest arias fell flat. Such performances were not best appreciated in confined spaces, even those as commodious as the Yellow Drawing Room.

"If she asks for volunteers in her performance, William, you must go up." Melbourne rolled his eyes comically when his old friend made the suggestion in arch tones.

"I have nothing to say to the dead. I think most of them would be quite devoid of a sense of humor. Not unexpected when one is obligated to converse through an American circus performer, or to Benjamin Disraeli, but…"

Victoria squeezed his hand in return, her own gesture a warning that they were within earshot of those guests waiting to be led into the dining room, and then laid her hand on his arm so he could escort her past the double line of those waiting to greet them.


	18. Chapter 18

"I find it most refreshing how you Whigs embrace the common man. Radicals, republicans, men quite without family or social standing to recommend them. Even a _stage performer_ at the Queen's table. What next? Perhaps the Duchess of Quim." Benjamin Disraeli had been speaking to his neighbor at table, but as was often the case with that gentleman, his appreciation of his own wit caused his voice to carry. Melbourne saw the other man's black eyes dart left and right, as though ascertaining approbation from his tablemates.

Lord Melbourne lounged at his ease, legs stretched out, looking over the rim of his brandy snifter. His eyes were merry, and his lips quirked with amusement.

"As you say, sir. You ran as a Radical back in – oh, what was it? '31? '32? And have always flown the flag of Liberalism, from the very battlements of Tory orthodoxy."

As Melbourne intended, the rebuke was subtle enough to pass unnoticed by any save its target. Disraeli, he was gratified to see, took the reminder as it was intended. The American, George Bernardo Eagle, was indeed at the Queen's table. How he and his daughter had come to be at Buckingham House was an unsolved mystery, one on which the Lord Chamberlain could cast no light, but he comported himself properly, displaying a rare sense of self that displayed neither sycophancy nor the sort of rough impropriety one might expect.

Eagle answered the questions put to him, and at Melbourne's express invitation had moved nearer his end of the table when the ladies departed, leaving the gentlemen to their port and brandy and discourse freer than that which was permissible in Her Majesty's presence. The man described his life with a touring show most pragmatically, without sensationalism and with enough wit and insight to engage his listeners.  Melbourne himself was as interested in this glimpse of an entirely alien way of life as the scions of England's most ancient families did. Henry Howard, 13th Duke of Norfolk, and his son likewise showed great interest and relaxed candor in their conversation. Only the naturally-abrasive striver, Disraeli, was determined to prove his ill breeding with sneering derision of the showman in their midst.

"Can you read my mind right now, Mr. Eagle?" he demanded, smiling wickedly. The American merely chuckled and shook his head.

"No more than you can read mine, sir. For example, if I was to tell you that at the moment you are thinking of ways to prove that I have no business seated with you fine gentlemen, why, would that be considered psychic, a voice from beyond, or mere common sense? And if I was to tell you that you are afraid you have no placed here, and must step on my fingers to keep your own place on the ladder, would that be plucked from the inner reaches of your psyche, or again, mere common sense?" Eagle's expression mirrored Melbourne's own, a harmless geniality meant to take the sting from his words.

"But your daughter is the real _spiritualist_ , isn't she? At least, that is what you claim. Talking to spirits from beyond, raising the dead and other unchristian endeavors?"

Eagle inclined his head in an appeasing gesture and spread out his hands. "We put on a show, sir, as does any opera singer, actor or magician. I hope you will be entertained this evening, no more."

Melbourne leaned forward, straightening with a small sigh.

"Dizzy, perhaps we have interrogated our guest sufficiently and we may now enjoy this rare opportunity to look beyond the end of our own noses and experience something of the greater world."

Melbourne deftly turned the conversation back to Mr. Eagle's experiences, gently questioning him in such a way that the other man could comfortably respond. He explained that they were not _Gypsies_ , as was so often the case with touring shows.

"The rest of us view true _Rom_ as the elite, but nowadays most of the show world – carnivals, circuses and the like – are owned and operated by _Gadje_ , as they call us, or non-Gypsies. My daughter grew up backstage, where she was as protected as any town child of similar circumstance. More protected by far than some of the pitiable waifs I see in the slums of Boston, New York, Baltimore – or London. We teach our own, and you will find my girl is as well-read as any who went to a fine finishing school.

Our business is to entertain, and we promise no more. Anyone who really watches and listens, genuinely and without the distraction of their own preconceptions, can readily see and hear all they need to without the intercession of spirits from other realms."

Baron Lyndhurst, Disraeli's friend and patron, had seemingly persuaded him to adopt more seemly conduct. Disraeli entered their conversation with a far more accommodating manner than he had previously displayed. Before that show of goodwill could fade once more Melbourne offered to show Eagle the Throne Room and Queen's Gallery. He enlisted Lord Spencer to lead the other gentlemen into the Yellow Drawing Room, to rejoin the ladies.

"You've had an interesting life, Mr. Eagle," Melbourne drawled congenially as they walked along, viewing each of the great paintings lining the walls of the Gallery.

"As have you, sir, if I may say," Eagle retorted, grinning. Melbourne only laughed at the sally and began explaining the significance of each portrait. The American had a good understanding of British history and asked some astute questions while Melbourne sauntered along. As they turned back to the corridor which bisected the State rooms he saw the royal footman whose alert presence heralded the approach of the Queen.

"Ah, Her Majesty approaches," Melbourne said lightly. "I do hope you have the chance to speak at length. She will find the stories you tell as interesting as I do, no doubt."

Melbourne bowed, and was secretly pleased to see that his American protégé did likewise, emulating him but deepening his own bow and holding it until after Victoria had greeted him. She was accompanied by several of her attendants and, several paces behind, the young American woman, the _spiritualist_ _medium_ whom her father had proudly described as a performer. While she held herself more stiffly, less at ease than her father at finding herself in Buckingham Palace, she appeared to be enjoying herself, swiveling her head this way and that, agog at the grandeur. Melbourne found it refreshing to be reminded of their own history, seen through the eyes of one not grown accustomed or blasé.

Miss Georgiana Eagle was a robust, handsome young woman, carefully gowned and coiffed for her presentation at the court of Queen Victoria. She had wide, clear gray eyes that surveyed the world with a shrewd, watchful expression, and if there was a certain wary guardedness in her face it was nearly camouflaged by the practiced pleasantry of anyone whose livelihood depended upon the whims of the people around her.

She had been at table but seated so far from him by protocol that Melbourne had no opportunity to converse. Now he inclined his head graciously and spoke a few words, merely expressing his hope that she was finding her visit a memorable one.

Her reaction was extraordinary. The grey eyes flew open so wide, the pupils dilated so completely, that she momentarily appeared blinded. Her creamy complexion went sickly-pale and she dragged in air through a mouth distorted by a silent scream, as her lips worked, trying to form words. Then she swayed, about to faint, and her father rushed forward to catch her before she could collapse.

**

"Herr Mendelssohn's playing was far more pleasant than the harpist," Melbourne observed, settling himself into his armchair. Victoria laughed and pretended to swat at him.

"You will not overcome your loathing of that poor harpist? Lord M, I think you will never learn to appreciate music."

"If I haven't by now, then it is likely I will not. And I beg to differ with Your Majesty, it was not the poor harpist I loathed, but that infernal twanging." He pretended to shudder with remembered horror. "However, you must give me some credit. I began by praising the pianist. His music at least is _musical_."

"I quite like Herr Mendelssohn too. Some call his music _popular_ as though that is a bad thing. Certainly, it is not baroque, and lacks the grandeur of –" Victoria squealed as her husband's strong arms lifted her off her feet so she landed on his lap.

"There now. That is much better." Melbourne sighed with satisfaction and comfort, cradling Victoria against his chest and resting his chin atop her head.

"Mr. Disraeli's wife, Mary Ellen. I wish I could like her, truly I do. She tries so hard, poor thing. She is so grand, so decked in jewels and elaborate costumes, but it is impossible to have conversation with her. Like her husband, she talks _at_ one." Victoria nestled herself against Melbourne's chest and continued discussing the guests and events of the evening, while he stroked her hair and offered occasional dry observations for the sheer pleasure of hearing her laugh.

"Miss Eagle – the spiritualist. I would like her to attend us again, privately. I found her fascinating."

"Mmmm…" Melbourne only hummed noncommittally, burying his face in the cloud of soft dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, sliding his hands up the sleeves of her nightgown.

Miss Eagle had recovered rapidly from her swoon. She and her father had taken seats in the farthermost row of those assembled to hear the musical performance, and little attention was paid them throughout the piano recital. Melbourne found himself glancing back several times but could not see past the heads of those behind him to where the Americans sat.

When the time came for her to step forward, Mr. Eagle introduced her with great flair. She herself was poised, polished and clearly accustomed to public performance. Once she began, explaining disingenuously and with a nice touch of humor, that she would deliver messages as they came to her, and could not explain the origin of her insights. When questioned, she herself disavowed any claim to speaking with the dead and artfully countering that while it was certainly possible that the spirits of those departed delivered their messages through her, it was equally possible that she merely _read the minds_ of those before her.

This last appeared to cause more consternation than the notion of ghosts in the drawing room, and Melbourne noted with amusement the discomfiture of his neighbors. He recognized the adeptness with which the young woman managed expectations while arousing heightened awareness that could only aid her in successfully reading those present. Most men, more than women, tended to display their every thought and feeling and it would take no supernatural intervention to interpret.

Georgiana was a performer par excellence, manifesting a magnetism that had nothing to do with the typical feminine attributes of physical beauty and sensual appeal. As she warmed to her act she veritably crackled with energy, and her confidence and humor were extremely engaging.

"I will begin by telling you that I sense a great many spirits about us tonight. This place –" she flung her hands wide, in a gesture encompassing the Yellow Drawing room and its walls lined with portraits of the Queen's ancestors. "-abounds with them. I feel them all about me, powerful spirits, men and women who in life were accustomed to being obeyed and in death will not suffer ignominy. They demand to be acknowledged." She swept a great, theatrical curtsy.

"You, ma'am," and she curtsied once more, this time to the Queen. "I sense these spirits all around _you_ , focused on you, guiding and encouraging you. You must listen to them and learn from them, and then choose your own path. Look to the future, not the past."

She continued, uttering meaningless platitudes and truisms which could not be rebutted and which, Melbourne thought admiringly, sounded far more portentous delivered in her sweeping, zooming syllables. A rhetorical style which would go over extremely well in the House, and one which he had always sorely lacked. A mind holding too many contradictory opinions, unable to stop searching for one more fact, considering one more argument, could never soar to such persuasive heights. He knew that he stumbled and stuttered and lapsed, lost in thought, far too often when speaking publicly, to ever be a successful orator.

She went on, singling out others for special attention, delivering praise and the mildest unobjectionable censure, predictions which could mean anything yet were accepted with alacrity by those to whom they were directed.

_You have always felt misunderstood, by your family and friends and even your lovers._

_And you, ma'am, have so many hidden talents that none yet have been able to appreciate. Let yourself shine, and you will be a gift unto the world._

_You over there – you have much to offer, and a great destiny in store. You will be a leader of men._

_Oh, Madame!_ this last, in soft confiding sympathetic tone. _No one understands how deeply you have been wounded, but the spirits know, and want to comfort you. Be sure that not a single tear falls unseen by Those who have gone before and watch over you from the other side._

_You, sir –_ when she stood, inevitably, before the Queen's own husband Melbourne detected a dimming of her exuberance, a lessening of the flamboyance which kept her audience attentive, rapt in her performance. _You are loved by strong women, women who protect and guide you, if you but let them_. General laughter at this, for who could she refer to but the Queen Regnant at his side, the Queen who adored him and made no secret of the fact?

_"You have known great success and great loss and_ … _and..."_ for the first time, the voice she used like an instrument halted and stuttered to a stop. Just as those present began looking about in confusion, she recovered herself and moved on to the Duchess of Kent, sitting on Melbourne's other side and the moment passed unremarked.

At the end of the evening, as the Queen and Lord Melbourne stood together bidding their guests a good night, George Eagle had addressed a few words _sotto voce_ to Melbourne while Victoria was thanking his daughter.

"She is a performer, Lord Melbourne. Only a performer. It is all an act. She sees nothing, has no special powers." Melbourne's brows had quirked up in surprise at the words and the impassioned urgency with which they were whispered. As though he were pleading for his daughter, Melbourne thought.

"Indeed, and a most interesting performance. We thank you for attending us tonight." Melbourne accepted and shook the hand offered and looked to the girl, who waited beside her father. Those gray eyes, which had avoided his own all evening, now stared intently into his own.

"Sir," she whispered. "I – I am sorry. I am unaccustomed to – my father is right, I am only a performer, an actress if you will. But tonight, I saw – I see you _here_ and _there_ and I have no idea what it means. But you must not follow the dreams. The dream world you visit in your sleep – you must not linger there, or you won't find your way back. And if you awaken there –" She stopped speaking abruptly when Victoria turned her head in their direction, and in that microsecond her father clutched her elbow and steered her to the door.

**

"—about that house you visited, when you encountered Mr. Disraeli?" Victoria was murmuring in his ear, her lips so close that he could feel her warm breath and it sent pleasant shivers up his spine.

"Are you still on about that, ma'am? A well-brought-up young lady should not be so very curious about a pleasure house." Melbourne teased, charmed by her half-playful, half-sincere desire to know more about a world so unlike her own. "Very well, then. What can I tell you? Dare I hope it involves something which might call for the use of the prophylactics I obtained? If so, I warn you it is nearly time I return for more. I can then bring you back further details, for your erudition."

"Tell me –" she whispered something else, ducking her head shyly while she very deliberately squirmed on his lap, her bottom naked under the nightdress. Melbourne laughed and before she could do more, stood suddenly, lifting her in his arms.

"Very well, Mrs. Melbourne. Rather than tell you, I will show you that. With the greatest of pleasure, I am at your service."


	19. Chapter 19

He carried her in his arms from their small sitting room, through the adjoining dressing room and into the great State bedchamber. It was no mean feat, even as small as she was, but Melbourne felt an exhilaration, a heady sense of what he could only call joie de vivre, which gave him strength.

Still, when he set her on her feet it was with a groan – exaggerated for effect – that brought on more of her delicious silvery laughter. Victoria swayed into him, her hands on his chest, in a movement that reminded him of a moment long ago. She had wanted to dance with him then…

Melbourne took her hand in his, laid the other in the small of her back and, in their bedchamber, in the low light of a single flickering lamp, began waltzing with Victoria. Her surprise faded into quiet pleasure and she moved with him, impossibly tiny in bare feet and flowing nightdress, while he hummed the melody in her ear.

They danced as they lived, in perfect unforced harmony, moving about the room as one, two elegant creatures suspended in a world of their own, Queen Victoria and Lord Melbourne.

Even when he stopped humming the tune in his head they did not stop dancing. Melbourne found it all too perfect to end, the warm, loving girl in his arms, the hazy golden glow of the gas lamp casting an aura on indistinct shapes, their bodies gliding as though feet did not touch the ground. _This_ , _this is life. This is_ my _life_.

It was Victoria who stopped first, breathless as she turned her face up to him, cheeks prettily flushed and eyes shining. She pled exhaustion, but her vivacity suggested otherwise.

"Ah…yes…there was something you had asked…it slipped my mind, my dear…" and before she could say more, Melbourne upended her, falling into the chair beside her dressing table with Victoria laid across his knees. Her curiosity was natural, and he considered it no more than a healthy demonstration of her perfect comfort with him. Well, then…

Her gown had hiked up around her hips and he pushed it further so that her derriere was fully exposed. She was quivering with anticipation when he stroked her, running his hand from her waist to her thighs over the voluptuous rounded rump so temptingly displayed. Then he picked up her hairbrush and applied it, with only enough force to startle her, spanking as one might a recalcitrant child. Spanked with far less stinging force than his schoolmasters had used to cane him and his housemates at Eton, far less vigor than was customarily used in the decadent pleasure houses he had frequented from time to time. Seeing the boar's bristles cause an immediate reddening, Melbourne laid the brush down and, when she did not make a move to rise, used his hand instead.

Despite what Victoria imagined in her innocence, the activities she was so curious about had to be entered into when one was in a certain state of mind, and were, no matter how willing both participants might be, on some level fueled by darker emotions seeking release, emotions which could not be tapped with his perfect, his precious love.

Melbourne felt both great tenderness and amusement at her naïve willingness to experiment so that there was nothing they did not share. It was the sight and feel of that quivering rosy bottom presenting itself which powerfully aroused him, rather than the act of striking her, no matter how carefully. He knew the erection poking into her abdomen had to cause more discomfort than his half-hearted paddling and helped her to rise.

"There now, my naughty girl. Enough? I hope so, for now it is your turn to pleasure me. And as you can see, I am most urgently in need of your attention."

Afterward, as they lay in each other's arms sated and at peace, Melbourne recalled the curious thought which had formed in his mind once more, at the very peak of his ecstasy. _This is life_. _This is_ my _life_. _This_ is my life. This _is_ my life. As though he were refuting some argument to the contrary.

He dismissed it at once, feeling no inclination to examine it further. Something about the words and what might lay behind them were to be avoided, yet even that notion was so alien that it should beg examination. Instead he curled his long body around that of his sweet wife and pressed his nose into her neck, so he might fall asleep breathing in her very essence.

**

"I am meeting with Henry this morning. The first dispatches are in from Hardinge and I am as eager to hear whether it will be peace or war as he is."

"Indeed," Victoria said wryly, over her cup of breakfast chocolate. "I do hope my Foreign Secretary sees fit to consult with me before deciding on a course of action."

"You must remind Lord John of that. Am I needed at your audience with him?"

"You are always needed, Lord M. But do as you will. I will contrive if you are kept in town." They were alone in the breakfast room and Victoria took advantage of that fact to butter a roll and feed it to her husband one bite at a time.

"So, if they say it must be war with the Sikh faction, what's the alternative, William? Surely there is a counterargument? You once said for every argument there is a counterargument and one must endeavor to explore both sides. I fear Lord John and Henry will only tell me what aligns with their proposed course of action."

"There is always a counterargument, in my experience. It is the job of a wise minister to explore both and determine which is best. I daresay I was rather proficient at the former, not so much the latter. It always seemed to me just as I was about to make up my mind some powerfully persuasive piece of evidence tipped the scale in another direction. But-" he chuckled, gently guiding Victoria's hand away as she was about to feed him yet another bite. "-you will fatten me like a Christmas goose, ma'am. I must be off, after a brief stop at the nursery – or shall I say 'schoolroom'? – to wish the children a good day. Will you come with me?"

Melbourne rose from the table and Victoria did likewise, taking his hand and swinging it as they walked.

"We never discussed the spiritualist's performance last night. I would like to have her return, privately. What did she say to you at the end?"

Melbourne looked as blank as his mind had gone. _Had_ the American girl said something especially to him? Of course, she had; why had he forgotten her peculiarly impassioned words as she was taking her leave? Something about her not being a psychic and not talking to the dead, a disavowal her father had repeated. But also – ah, dreams. Yes, she had spoken of dreams.

Melbourne rarely remembered his very troubling dreams. The light of day, awakening beside Victoria, meant all was right in the world and he was easily able to close the cupboard door in his mind, locking away all recollection. _What had she said_? And more to the point, how had she known something so very intimate? Was it more of a truism, the sort of generally applicable sentiment which people were liable to think applied uniquely to them? Surely everyone had nightmares now and then?

No, Melbourne thought, if she had used a reference to troubling dreams, even a warning not to – _what did she say? to follow them? to linger? –_ well, that could be good general advice to a man of more than sixty years, an allusion to dying in one's sleep. But instead she had whispered her warning, if that's what it was, to him alone, and prefaced it by denying any of the occult skills of which her advertisements boasted.

Odd indeed, he decided, and his curiosity was piqued enough that it overruled a certain aversion to pursuing the manner further.

"I will send someone to track them down at their hotel and extend an invitation to attend us privately. The father is an interesting fellow, even if the daughter is an odd duck."

**

Melbourne had intended to pay only a courtesy visit to 10 Downing before going on to seek out Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, in his own offices. Palmerston was in fact closeted with his premier when Melbourne was announced, and he was invited to join them. 

Hardinge's first summary report had arrived late the afternoon before. It contained the firsthand observations from those at Lahore who had met with the Maharini and ended with Hardinge's firm recommendation that he be permitted to issue a declaration of war against the Sikhs loyal to Jind Kaur. Palmerston read aloud some portions of the report, mostly a dry summary of troop strength and readiness. One phrase stood out, prompting Melbourne to smirk when Jind Kaur was described as "the Messalina of the Punjab", a seductress too rebellious to be controlled.

"We Englishmen are apt to describe any woman in sexual terms, when she dares demand to stand on equal footing with a man. I wonder if that's because we all share a secret desire to be dominated by a strong woman?" His voice was so gentle, his tone so laden with whimsy, that Russell appeared puzzled while Palmerston barked lewd laughter.

"If I might suggest? It would be wise to leave out such colorful language. It sounds more admiring than the opposite, and I'm sure that's not the effect you wish to have."

Russell, whom Melbourne considered a fair Whig and a good enough man, let the matter go, while Palmerston sat wiping his eyes, still struggling to recover from his bout of laughter. Melbourne conceded that it was inevitable they would need to subdue the rebellious province by force of arms. If the British were going to hold India and retain control of the precariously woven web of alliances between the various nation-states therein, they could not allow Jind Kaur's forces to defy them. She would be forced to stand down and cede her regency to a British governor-general. Her son would keep his throne, a figurehead prince, and her people would accept British governance. There was no other option.

Melbourne was permitted to sit in on subsequent meetings, wherein the exact language of Hardinge's declaration was hammered out. It would be issued in the name of the Queen and so would require Victoria's approval. Melbourne remained an interested bystander, only occasionally offering a suggestion on wording more likely to align with Her Majesty's preferred tone.

When it seemed as good as it would get for a first draft – Russell's ministers knew as well as Lord Melbourne that the Queen would rewrite whatever they gave her, lining out passages and replacing them with her own words and phrases – Melbourne left them so that he could be at Victoria's side when Russell arrived for his audience in little more than an hour.

The letter was waiting for him, courtesy of Lord Cameron, when he dismounted outside Buckingham House. He had dispatched Cameron to ascertain which hotel housed the Americans and deliver an invitation over his name inviting them for a private audience with the Queen.

Melbourne gave Cameron's note a cursory glance – it said only that the Americans had left that morning, intent on returning to America by steamship as soon as they could obtain passage – and that a letter had been left with the concierge, addressed to Lord Melbourne at Buckingham Palace. Melbourne broke the seal on that one with a great deal of interest, and saw a single page written in a neat schoolgirl's hand.

_Sir,_

_We will have left when you read this. My father and I have cancelled our English engagements and will return to America by any means we can. I am an entertainer, and have never spoken to the dead, or had visions, or read any secret thoughts beyond that which can be apprehended with careful observation and understanding of human nature, until last night. I can say no more, for I don't understand myself. There are some – not many, but some – who truly have a gift for interpreting such visions. I recommend you find such a one, as I will myself. All I can tell you, and it's so little as to be virtually useless, is that if you are content with your life do not try to follow where your dreams lead or look into the world they show you. It's what could be and maybe, somewhere, somehow, what is.   _

Victoria greeted him with pleasure minutes before the Prime Minister and Lord Palmerston were announced. When those gentlemen were shown into the Queen's study they were both struck by the picture of perfect amity Her Majesty and Lord Melbourne presented. Victoria sat behind her desk, pretty in dark silk with a lace collar, and her husband stood behind her, his hands clasped behind his back. Victoria stood and walked around the desk to receive their greetings, then gestured magnanimously for them both to be seated. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the Queen was her own mistress, led by no man, but her every gesture made it plain she valued her husband's counsel. Melbourne deftly maintained the perfect balance, deferring to his wife as sovereign while projecting dignified elegance as befitted a senior statesman. Palmerston understood the dynamic well, having married for love the only woman he had ever found who could match him in political acumen, while Russell thought that it might not be as difficult as he'd originally feared, asserting his own authority without being overshadowed by his predecessor. Clearly, while Melbourne was his wife's protector and confidante, he was well established in his own role with no need to engage in undignified power struggles with a successor.

Russell wasted no time in presenting their case for a quick, decisive war with the rebellious Sikh. Victoria's questions were pertinent, and she had clearly prepared well. Her interest in Jind Kaur was personal as well as political, for she had taken a great interest in this woman who was so nearly her contemporary and like her, leading a nation in her own right. She accepted the written declaration of war that had been prepared for her signature, and to no one's surprise set it aside for careful review before signing.

"I expect Jind Kaur to be treated with every courtesy. She is our sister sovereign and will be treated as such."

"She has a vast loyal following, ma'am. She cannot remain as a rallying point. She must be imprisoned, far from her homeland."

"Yet she has a small son, not much older than the Prince of Wales. You suggest separating mother and son?"

"There is no other way, Your Majesty. We need the boy on the throne, under our appointed Regent, of course. If we exile him and his mother without a viable alternative, nothing will more surely frighten those who are now our allies than British appearing to seize the power. Those Indians have a great deal of pride and must believe we do not mean to usurp them as well."

Victoria frowned and glanced at Melbourne, her touchstone in moments of doubt.

"I cannot like it, Lord Russell. It's a bad business, to remove the lawful ruler of a sovereign State, even if that State is our dependent. And to separate a mother from her child –"

"We haven't come to that point yet, ma'am. She might see fit to make terms after all, terms which allow us to retain her as a nominal regent. She has to be agreeable to our Governor-General exercising control as he sees fit but –"

Victoria grew silent, recognizing that she had reached the limit of her constitutional authority to _advise_ and to _warn_ and certainly, to be the voice of caution and reason.

"You will return tomorrow at this same time and I will have signed the final edict declaring war on Jind Kaur. The declaration will contain what terms we require to avoid open conflict and provide opportunity for the Maharini to comply."

Palmerston was pleasantly surprised that they had gotten nearly everything they asked for, and spoke before his chief, expressing his thanks in language more formal than Victoria was accustomed to hearing from him. This new government would change that relationship too, she realized.

As soon as her ministers bowed themselves out Victoria turned to Melbourne.

"I wish we could do more to avoid open conflict with that woman…." her voice trailed off. Melbourne did not offer hollow assurances, knowing she only needed to express her concerns. When she sought advice or solutions she would ask.

"Sometimes there are no good solutions, and if we are in the business of building an empire…" He shrugged instead, opening his arms. Victoria stepped into the protection of his embrace and laid her cheek on his shoulder.

"Mmmm…good…" she cooed, her fingers twisting the buttons on his waistcoat. "I am the most fortunate of women, that you are mine, all mine."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This interlude is entirely credited to a lovely Vicbournista who had an idea too delicious to ignore. We couldn't let it go to waste, and our William deserves some adventure and whimsy after the ordeal we put him through.

Late autumn saw the sun set early. Gone was the long, lingering dusk of summer; gone the violet-hued sky which seemed to promise much from the night to come. Instead, bare gnarled branches were barely outlined against a sky just the hue of an old bruise. What light there was, filtered through clouds as thick as a widow's veil, reflected off puddles in the road and less defined luminescence seen in only random flashes.

The air was dank with the smell of rotting leaves and sodden earth. A steady rain had fallen through much of the day but with the fading of the light, only a few errant drops remained.

A single well-sprung carriage, drawn by four unmistakably well-bred and tended horses, guided by a postilion unmistakably garbed in Royal livery, traveled briskly down one of the best-maintained highways in England. From Windsor to Uxbridge they had smooth going and the team ran well despite John Coachman's reserved caution. Leaving so late in the day they had scarcely covered a quarter of the sixty miles before daylight was lost, not something he would have recommended had anyone asked him. No matter how smooth the road might appear, it was heavily battered by daily passage of the Mail coaches, such traffic no less after the advent of the trains, for a steam engine could never replace the Mail and those equally heavy-laden passenger conveyances and market wagons which served every community from London to Northampton. _All that's needed is for one of the four to sprain a leg stepping wrong into one of the potholes, impossible to make out in the meagre light of two lanterns,_ Coachman had muttered more than once to the gentleman on the seat beside him.

The Great North Road began in the heart of London and could be followed all the way to Scotland. When the General Post Office at St Martin's-le-Grand had been built in 1829, coaches started using an alternative route, beginning at the Post Office and following Aldersgate Street and Goswell Road before joining the old route once more. The Angel Inn was an important staging post. There were stages at Highgate, Barnet and Hatfield, this route one that John Coachmen knew like the back of his hand, so he told his second man. Before they reached Hatfield proper he would turn off, down a lesser road that far fewer traveled and it was that stretch he anticipated with the most concern. A better surface but no help for it, if an axle broke or one of the animals lamed itself, from the main road to Brocket Hall.

As Her Majesty wished it, the mostly ornamental Coldstream Guard remained at Windsor. On these private weekend trips, she was protected only by the well-armed rider sitting atop the rig and another silent man behind, one of those ciphers, stern-eyed silent men with the bearing of soldiers in the raiment of clerks. John Coachman looked beyond the end of his team at the dark silent night and wished heartily that at least the big'un was with them, the gregarious Irishman who most often protected the Queen's person when she ventured beyond castle walls. Then he shook his head, blew his nose into a large kerchief and chided himself for being an old woman.

* * *

Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, rode in petulant silence. Beside her, only a single attendant, Lady Fanny Jocelyn. Fanny was usually the most ebullient of companions, but her mistress's simmering anger had convinced her to forgo her stream of amusing patter. On the seat across, the Queen's lady's maid rode with a carpetbag across her lap. The rest of their minimal luggage was packed onto the back of the coach.

Victoria had been in high spirits, anticipating this impromptu weekend trip to Lord Melbourne's country home. Not the official Melbourne seat – that was hundreds of miles distant – but the lovely Palladian dwelling built on the River Lea just a few hours' travel from the capital. Her temper rose as her good mood dissipated at one contretemps after another.

At least, Victoria thought, _Mama_ had asked – implored, in fact – her to leave the children behind. Those round blue eyes had been cajoling, near-pleading, when she begged for the opportunity to spend this weekend with her grandchildren, unhindered by the phalanx of ceremonial attendants who perpetually hovered about. The State-appointed governess, a Whig replacement for the recently dismissed Lady Sarah Lyttleton, had been given leave to join her own family for the weekend, and the two auxiliary honor appointees would likewise be absent, giving the Duchess of Kent near-free rein to flaunt her authority over long-suffering Baroness Lehzen.

Victoria had asked Lady Portman to accompany her, as was the custom on private visits to Brocket Hall. That lady's estate was not far distant and she would spent time at home renewing her acquaintance with Edward, Lord Portman, no matter how little either relished the prospect. At the last moment Emma had begged off, sending Fanny in her place. Vaguely offended, unwilling to force her, Victoria shrugged it off as just one more irregularity. 

Lord Cameron, who had aborted his own trip to the East and been summoned back to England, might have been expected to accompany her and at least relieve the monotony of travel without William, but he also had demurred, citing some unspecified personal business requiring his attention. That too, Victoria had shrugged off. It was her own husband's failure to return in time to leave as they planned, that roused her to fury. 

Melbourne had set the arrangements in motion, then at the last possible moment, when their departure was already delayed, sent word from Whitehall that he was unable to accompany her, and would join her as soon as circumstances permitted. His terse lines gave her no good reason, and it doubly infuriated her that he would so cavalierly abandon the plans they had made. 

 _What good is it, to have the privacy we crave, if I am to sleep alone?_ _All the arrangements, everything falling into place, so we might have this time away, and it's all for naught if he doesn't come to me_ , Victoria thought peevishly. _I may as well have stayed at Windsor._

It was already dark; he couldn't possibly catch up now and even her longing could not completely erase the guilt of desiring him to ride by night for so selfish a purpose.

Still, she was not pleased, and as it had been in childhood, when Alexandrina Victoria was not pleased, those about her would know it.

Victoria sat back, allowing her back to rest briefly against the well-upholstered seat, and willed herself to relax the tension gripping her. Victoria knew her own temper well and did endeavor to control it with fair success. As a young child her tantrums had been legendary, until the Duchess of Kent engaged Louise Lehzen. The thin, pious Lutheran pastor's daughter had through means no one, even Victoria herself, particularly understood, inspired the little princess to do what no one else could, and that was to master a strong will and the willingness to impose it at all costs. As she matured, those closest to Victoria conceded she had grown less volatile and learned to temper her demands. Sometimes, though, it was difficult and scarcely seemed worth the effort, when everything conspired to thwart her.

Reclining with eyes closed, Victoria had not slept, not even dozed. Instead she had closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine how pleasant it would be when he finally did arrive, whether this night or the morrow. Away from the constant presence of attendants and the regimented royal servitors, alone at the Hall with only a single lady-in-waiting, Lord M's own niece, Victoria could relax the rigid dignity and reserve required when she was in the public eye and regain some of the delicious freedom of their summer idyll at Brocket. Alone with _him_ , all his attention on her. Able to make leisurely, unhurried love and fall asleep in each other's arms, to awaken with intertwined limbs and caress each other, lay abed til midday if they so chose, make love in daylight, whisper and laugh and talk, share all the wonderful intimacies that went far beyond the physical act of joining. Above all, make up for the strain of recent weeks, when all of his attention was on their sick child.

The carriage jolted to a halt so suddenly that Miss Skerrett lost her grip on the canvas carpetbag she held. Bag and maid both pitched forward so they landed on Victoria. Beyond, the sound of several voices, low, gruff and intense. _Had William caught up to them after all?_ She leaned forward to look out the window on the distaff side but was jerked almost roughly back.

"Best wait until they tell us what the problem is, ma'am," Fanny said in her soft voice. She sounded strained, Victoria thought. _Was something amiss?_   _What could it be? Who would dare interfere with her coach?_   Her simmering annoyance rising, Victoria resolved to demand an explanation. She brushed Fanny's hand aside to lean forward once more.


	21. Chapter 21

The party had stopped on an especially dark stretch of road. Old growth trees formed a canopy overhead, obliterating what little moonlight penetrated the clouds. When Victoria finally managed to thrust open the carriage door unaided she could make out only dark shapes some short distance away, too indistinct for her to even be certain they were men until one moved.

After that matters proceeded quickly. One figure, muffled from throat to chin with a rough scarf incongruously met by a Venetian mask of the sort seen at Covent Gardens masquerades, indicated with a gesture that the coach's occupants should disembark. Lady Jocelyn obeyed with alacrity, eyes lowered, and face averted, even before Victoria could speak.

"Do you know who I am?" She snapped in her iciest tone. The fellow reaching into the carriage said nothing, only passing Fanny to his companion. When Victoria attempted to follow she was prevented from climbing down by the man's arm blocking her passage. This he managed to do without touching her, an oddly reassuring gesture which told her he indeed knew whose carriage they had accosted. Despite the peculiar courtesy of their masked intruder Miss Skerrett took instant hissing, spitting offense and nearly dragged the bedazzled mask from his face before he could shove her hand away.

Victoria sat back, spine straight and face frozen in a remote, contemptuous expression, unwilling to sacrifice dignity to a futile grappling struggle.

 _Someone will sort this out. Where_ is _Cameron's man? Where is William?_

She was mightily offended, and began to feel a slow-rising concern, not for herself – for of what use to anyone was a wounded or murdered monarch? – but for the few men whose duty it was to serve and protect her. Unwillingly she began regretfully contemplating the standing order she'd given, that these private weekend trips to Brocket Hall be accomplished without fanfare. It had been ridiculous to imagine such regularity would not be noted by those who had a reason to do so, and heartily selfish to not realize it was the safety of the handful of men who did escort her that she put at risk.

_No matter how much one might wish to be an ordinary woman, it was wrong playact at it when others were involved, not to mention the dignity of the Crown._

In the end it took two men shoving themselves through the single doorway at once and a terse order from the Queen herself to subdue the lady's maid fighting to protect her mistress. When she'd been led away – to another waiting conveyance, Victoria surmised – the first man returned and muttered something meant to be reassuring, although it was difficult to understand through the thick scarf wound several times around his lower face.

When he handed her something Victoria hesitated before taking it, unable to discern the object. His hand shook impatiently, and she saw it was only fabric of some sort. A scarf, cravat, gentleman's neckcloth - some scrap of dark cloth longer than it was wide was dropped onto her lap before the door closed firmly.

The jingle of bridle bits and a gruff barked command and the carriage was underway once more. Victoria reckoned they had been nearly at the turnoff leading to the Hall itself and would now encounter no other traffic for the remaining miles. She was surprised that they would dare take her to the destination all knew, and soon realized her error when a series of short jerking motions told her the team must have been skillfully turned on what was an exceedingly narrow road. _So be it, then – they were taking her somewhere else_. Revolutionaries, certainly – antimonarchists, most probably Irish although there had been a great increase in dissatisfaction amongst the Welsh as well, and no shortage of French firebrands willing to cross the channel to spread egalitarian fervor. Socialists, even?

Victoria recalled and dismissed out of hand the fate of the past French Queen, some fifty-odd years before, and more recently the reports of brewing dissatisfaction with the government of Louis-Phillipe. She resolved to wait patiently until whatever might be afoot revealed itself. Surely it was some sort of concession they sought, some means of putting pressure on the fledgling Whig government of Lord John Russell or even his Foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston. Whomever was behind this, they surely must count on the willingness of her ministers to concede from concern for the appearance of having the Queen snatched up and whisked away, for no one could imagine Victoria had any real ability to set policy or make law of her own volition.

She considered all aspects of this curious situation and could find it in her to do what she must to maintain the dignity of the Crown while preserving the safety of those servants who had the misfortune of being in her company. _But William!_ Victoria's heart ached for him and she prayed heartily that the whole episode be satisfactorily resolved before he could be informed. He had endured much torment during Lily's accident and the aftermath and did not deserve yet another crisis. He would feel responsible, of course he would, Victoria knew – he had ever put her safety and well-being ahead of any other consideration as Prime Minister, and as husband…she willed him to sense her thoughts, to know that she was whole and well and not unduly distressed. Closing her eyes, Victoria sent her love and reassurance to Melbourne as others would pray to God.

**

Overall the thing had been easy enough to arrange, since by longstanding tradition the Queen herself insisted that on those weekends they went to Brocket Hall she leave behind the pomp and protocol of the Court. Of course, that still meant traveling with one or more ladies-in-waiting, equerry, dresser and maids and whatever household the children required, to supplement the dozen servants at the Hall itself so that even in the relaxed informality of Lord Melbourne's country home there were upwards of twenty people on hand at any given time.

Lady Portman had sharply refused to play the role she usually did on those weekends, and instead left word for the Queen that she was needed elsewhere. Such a curt refusal might have ensured the dismissal of any other attendant but in Emma's case Victoria merely accepted the offer of Fanny Jocelyn to substitute.

Lord Cameron, once again head of the Queen's security detail, had been the wildcard. His single-minded devotion to her interests was as well-known as his contemptuous disregard of anything which might render him vulnerable to bribe or coercion. His sins were not scandals because made no attempt to hide them, he had little use for money beyond an ample salary and no family title or estate worth advancing, only a crumbling Irish castle and one brother who had made a success of his own career in medicine. In the end Cameron conceded, but with stringent conditions.

Finding men who could be trusted to manage such a delicate operation with finesse and discretion had been surprisingly easy – only a handful such existed, and they were each employed to good purpose. The coachman and the Queen's chief dresser were the only persons not part of the scheme.

The man riding shotgun beside him was a trusted servant and the security man accompanying them, a late substitution, was hand-picked by Cameron himself. In truth, it was his second brother, recently arrived from a stay in Bridewell Prison, in County Galway.

Those riders who intercepted the carriage were likewise chosen with great care, their mission explained and the need for the most exquisite care to be taken. The need to avoid any possibility of physical harm went without saying, even to preventing inadvertent jostling and tossing about by a team stopped short on the narrow road. Moreover, every observance must be paid Her Majesty's dignity and she must not at any point be unsettled at what was, in the end, merely a detour from the expected route. Had she manifested any discomfort or real distress the entire operation would have been instantly aborted.

**

Victoria strained every sense to form some impression of their direction of travel, so that she might have a general idea of their ultimate destination. She had never paid close attention to a journey made so often, but it was soon apparent they were no longer on the road to Brocket Hall, despite having left the highway at the correct turn.

When they traversed a long bridge the clatter of the wheels and a certain hollow feel told Victoria it was a section of roadway she had not previously known. Soon afterward they slowed.

They pulled up in front of a two-story building which Victoria thought might be red brick in the light of day. She thought it was too small to belong to any member of the nobility, yet too grand and well-maintained to be inhabited by any common farmer.

The step was lowered and one of the masked riders quickly dismounted and came to offer his assistance. Victoria ignored the outstretched hand for only a moment, then determinedly laid her gloved hand on his arm only to avoid the inelegant spectacle of a queen rolling to the ground. She turned around to survey her surroundings. The merest hint of reflected moonlight glinting in the distance told her they were near a large body of water, as did a vague murky odor. No ornamental plantings or other attempt to soften the square structure reinforced her first impression that whatever this place was, it was no aristocratic dwelling. _A merchant perhaps? Some City man, financier or industrialist, with a yen to establish his family far from urban decay? Property rented for this occasion and this alone by whatever mysterious entity had deemed it wise to abduct a ruling monarch in the very heart of Hertfordshire?_

Victoria shrugged off such useless speculation and squared her shoulders, determined to focus all her attention on what might lay ahead.

**

He was standing in the far corner of a medium-sized room, fitted out with comfortably worn furnishings which bore no trace of any thought to elegance or fashion. No lamp had been lit and the thick draperies were drawn to shut out what meager moonlight might attempt penetration.

When she came in he was struck anew, with a tantalizing sense of newness and appreciation, by how tall she appeared despite lack of inches. The Queen, his queen, spine made of steel, swept into the chamber, moving dismissively past her escort.

"We trust you, sir, will explain the meaning of this."

Her voice, so cool and controlled, fell on his ears like music. This alone made it all worthwhile, the chance to discover her afresh, a most remarkable young woman, no more the unformed girl who had once been new to the power of her destiny. Her imperiousness, no longer merely that of a strong-willed princess raised to think of herself as omnipotent by right of birth alone. Now, instead, the self-possession of a woman who knew herself well and was utterly confident in the force and competence of her own sharp mind and compelling personality. _I did that_ , and the realization swelled within him. _If I've done nothing else of worth in my entire life, I helped her become the woman she is. No, I merely showed her who she might become and removed any obstacles to that becoming_. _The rest is hers and hers alone._

_**_

When she received no response, and the figure standing in the darkest corner of the room made no movement, Victoria felt her patience and self-discipline flag.

"I am speaking to you," she said sharply. "Give me the courtesy of your attention. Whatever this is about, I wish to resolve it quickly and without involving anyone else. My attendants are blameless and my – my husband must not be troubled."

Still, no response, but Victoria thought she heard a sharp intake of breath.

"I assume you know the limits to my authority, and the structure of a constitutional monarchy. Within those constraints, if your demands are fair, I will endeavor to consider them if we proceed expeditiously. I'm sure you know you have a very short window of opportunity before there is a general outcry when I do not arrive at my destination."

He briefly entertained the prospect of Her Majesty's righteous indignation when he revealed himself. That thought made him smirk, and even stir with anticipation. Her anger would be soon quelled, and they would have ample opportunity in which to explore at length his demands.

"Forty-eight, ma'am," he said aloud. "Forty-eight hours, not one."

Victoria's breath stopped, the words ringing in her ears. The room was large, and the whisper muted, nearly indistinct.

"Forty-eight hours? You are absurd, sir. I am the Queen of England. My household, my Court, my personal guard will mobilize the moment they learn I did not reach Brocket Hall. I will certainly not be with you for two full days."

She felt the first surge of real fear, but it was quickly overtaken by anger, sharp and pure. Anger clarified, it strengthened, whereas fear confused and weakened. Victoria had learned that long ago. It was impossible, that simple. One could not simply abduct the Queen and smuggle her away without fear of repercussions. The most fleeting of ideas passed through her mind – she was alone and not only unprotected but unchaperoned and had only ever been unchaperoned in the presence of one man. Not even her uncles met with her tête-à-tête. Well, two – the memory of her anger-driven, tipsy encounter with Lord Cameron was buried deep – but _he_ had been more anxious and ill at ease than she and had been horrified at her foolish overture. Now it would be three, if she added this man standing silent and mysterious in a remote country home.

 _By now we should be together at the Hall, talking about our day, Lord M amusing me with his retelling of the people he saw, his witty mockery of the worthies with whom I had met._ Victoria ached with wanting her husband, his strong arms around her, his soft gravelly voice in her ear. His gentle humor, his tender care.

**

He blinked with surprise when she stomped her foot angrily and uttered an inchoate sound laden with frustration. Then he smiled in the dark, amused at the kittenish manifestation of temper which had bubbled out, escaping her careful control.

"Victoria," he said softly, walking towards her at last, arms outstretched.


	22. Chapter 22

Melbourne leaned against the mantle, head resting on his hand and wearing an expression of somewhat weary amusement. He had been listening to Victoria vent her spleen for many minutes, hoping each time she paused for breath that her temper had run its course.

 _Tricked_ had been used many times; _disobeyed_ made several appearances in her discourse and _humiliated_ seemed to be a recurring theme. Melbourne did not try to stem the tide, even though he was beginning to think her fury would not ebb as soon as he had once hoped. He allowed his mind to wander, admiring her heightened color and the thrust of her bosom as she dragged in more air between bursts of outrage.

"Say something!" She demanded at intervals, but he knew better than to take advantage of the invitation to join battle while she was disinterested in the sound of any voice save her own. Instead he merely lifted his shoulder in the minutest of shrugs and allowed his mouth to quirk up in a small smile.

They held their places several feet apart and Melbourne contented himself with waiting out her passionate display, knowing that sooner or later she would calm down enough to see reason. It wasn't until she turned and flounced toward the front hallway that he moved, and then it was with such agile speed they were both surprised. Melbourne barred her passage, grasping her wrist as she reached to open the heavy door.

"Let me go!" Victoria had demanded. "I will find my own way back."

"No, Madame, you will not. It's the dead of night, you don't know where you're going and will not walk through the dark alone."

"Then take me. I will not stay in this – this _hovel_ a moment longer. You tricked me, like some domineering medieval ogre, some – some –" Melbourne made the mistake of bursting out in laughter, unable to suppress the merriment her adorably girlish discombobulation roused.

"And now you laugh at me? How dare you? Lord Melbourne, you forget yourself." Victoria's raised chin and dangerously sparkling eyes begged some response.

"And you, Lady Melbourne, forget _yourself_. By the laws of God and man you are wife even before you are sovereign." Melbourne's drawling delivery and the twitching at one corner of his mouth would have told her he was only teasing if she had cared to see. Instead she merely shoved him hard and turned to struggle with the door once more.

" _'Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee, and for thy maintenance commits his body,'_ " Melbourne recited, and her puzzled expression gave him the chance he needed to grasp Victoria about the waist, pinning her arms at her side, and steer her away from the exit.

"What on earth…? Are you reciting _poetry_?" Victoria, dumbfounded, did not resist, although she did not yield to him either.

"Poetry? Ma'am, the bard himself. _'And when she is forward, peevish, sullen, sour, and not obedient to his honest will, what is she but a foul contending rebel, and graceless_ _traitor to her loving lord_?'"

Having reached the main reception room once more, Melbourne unceremoniously shoved her onto the closest sofa and sat down beside her, breathing heavily.

"Now calm yourself, sweetheart. Nothing's amiss, no one knows anything except what they were told, which is that instead of the main hall we would spend some time alone at the Lodge."

"Where are we then? Why were Fanny and Miss Skerrett taken off? Why was the _carriage_ stopped and diverted? And by _masked_ men who terrified me?"

Melbourne blinked twice, slowly. "Darling...never have I seen anyone less frightened than you. You were a goddess, an Amazon. We are at a hunting lodge on the estate, a few miles from the main Hall. We are also on the other side of the Broadwater, impassable except by boat or bridge at normal times and this year especially the water runs fast and deep. As we know all too well, for it nearly claimed Lily. So, you see, I will not allow you to leave until it's light and you are properly accompanied by your husband, in a carriage or on horseback." Melbourne paused. "That is, if you still want to leave in the morning. Forty-eight hours is not so very long."

"But why? Why on earth should we be stuck in this…this _hunting lodge_ , which is quite primitive and without a single servant that I have seen if Brocket Hall is indeed near?" Victoria's voice was still cold and argumentative, but Melbourne was relieved that at last she was sensible once more.

He stretched out his own long legs, relaxing his posture, staring at his boots. Then he looked up at Victoria once more.

"Because I wish it?" he said softly. "Because I would like this time away from everyone and alone with you."

"Why? And if that was so, why didn't you merely ask me? I won't be controlled, by you or anyone!" Victoria's mouth twisted into a petulant pout and Melbourne ached to kiss her. Instead he reflected on how he might answer her very reasonable question.

"Why do I wish it? Because…I would like us to be away from the busyness and distraction of the Court, the household, family and children and responsibilities. It's been so very long since we had hours to spend alone, discovering each other. Such talks we used to have! Do you remember?"

"We talk all the time. I do not know of another couple who are so completely attuned to each other as we are. And if you did wish that, why didn't you ask me?"

"I do not seek to control you, my love, as you well know, or should, but just occasionally my male vanity demands I take charge of some aspect of our lives. I didn't ask you because…oh, I suppose I thought it might be a romantic gesture. I was once or twice advised that it would behoove me to be more daring, more like –" Melbourne stopped short, but not soon enough. Victoria's face had softened, but then her brows came together in a scowl once more.

"Told by whom? By _her_?" They both knew she meant Caroline Norton. No other female inspired that tone of sheer hatred from Victoria. Melbourne shook his head slightly, fearing his answer would not be more acceptable, cursing himself for the faux pas. Victoria knew what he would say before he spoke the name.

"More like George Byron?" She made a little moue of distaste. "So, we have _that_ Caroline to thank for this contretemps? I was – I _am_ – quite satisfied with my husband, thank you very much. I have no need for any _mad, bad_ , dangerous displays. Perhaps you should listen more to _this_ wife and less to _that_ one."

"Touché," Melbourne responded. "I stand corrected, and properly so. Well, Lady Melbourne, will you give me your word that you will stay the night and make no more attempt to escape?"

He lifted her hand from her lap and took it in both of his, idly tracing patterns in her palm, turning the wedding ring he had placed there.

"Else I will tie you to the bed. Make no mistake, that is not an idle threat. Rather than lose my wife to the dark I will keep you in bondage…for your own well-being."

**

The bedchamber had he led her to was not outfitted for a lady, at least not a lady of quality. Despite having sent instructions to ready the Lodge, many years' vacancy had not yielded to a quick cleaning and fresh sheets. The four-poster bed was far smaller than the great State beds at Windsor and Buckingham House, not even as large and ornate as the chambers of Brocket Hall proper. The Lodge had been previously only used for seasonal hunts and weekend bachelor revelries. A bone-chilling dampness pervaded all, and only green damp firewood had been laid in a grate which had not been properly cleaned for many years.

He had been true to his word.  Even though Victoria put up only token resistance she stubbornly refused to give her word she would stay. Lord Melbourne had assisted her in removing her outer cloak and dress, loosening her stays and helping her out of her underclothing. When she stood in only her shift, silently awaiting provision of a nightdress, they discovered that her overnight essentials had gone with her maid and while the Queen's chamber at Brocket Hall was filled with her gowns and all the accoutrements of a lady's toilette, that was no help at a five-mile distance. Melbourne turned down the bedcovers with a bow reminiscent of his own valet.

"It is early to retire, ma'am, but I am not up to the exertion of chasing you about. I did ask that a stock of provisions be laid by and made certain of some good Bordeaux. I will bring that to us, along with bread and cheese, if you will commit to remaining up here like a good girl."

When Victoria shook her head truculently her husband sat her down on the bed, swung her feet up and with painstaking care took the strip of black silk he found in her pocket to bind her wrists to the bedposts. After ascertaining that the fabric was not knotted too tightly he stepped out of the room, returning with a dusty bottle and two glasses on a tray, as well as a heel of cheese and crust of bread.

"William, untie me," Victoria said levelly.

Melbourne frowned and immediately slid a finger under each restraint, measuring the tautness. Reassured that her perfect skin was unblemished he left the ties in place and stood back up with a serious, considering expression.

"Not quite yet, I think," he said slowly. "But here, let me pour for us."

He poured the shimmering red wine into two glasses and lifted one to her lips. Instead she tossed her head.

"Untie me, I said! This is not funny. I am not so aggrieved I will go running out into the night. I have no wish to break a leg or – or draw attention to this embarrassing circumstance. I will stay the night and tomorrow we will go to the Hall."

Victoria sounded reasonable, Melbourne thought, and while her tone held no warmth, neither was she agitated. He thought he could safely unbind her, in fact should do so immediately. _Tying one's wife to the bed – quite barbaric!_ Instead he sat beside her and took off his boots, then loosened his neckcloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

"More wine? Cheese?"

"No, I don't want _cheese_!" She spat the word as though it were the most hideous of substances imaginable. "Now untie me! I am uncomfortable in this position."

Melbourne looked at her with an expression of concern. Then he reached behind her head and removed each pin from her hair, so it fell to her shoulders in tangled curls, which he combed through with his fingers.

"There. More comfortable?" When she shook her head mulishly he thought for a moment. "No, of course not, how can you be?"

"Dammit, William, this is not funny. Un _tie_ my hands."

"Sshhh," he crooned soothingly. "You sound quite hoarse from shouting already. Rest your voice."

Melbourne slid her down so that she reclined on the pillows he arranged with the greatest of care, then moved himself farther down and began rolling down her stockings. She grudgingly permitted the attention until he looked away momentarily and then kicked at him. Not, he knew, with the intent of causing pain, but merely to express her dissatisfaction in the most strenuous of terms. The gesture nonetheless gave him an idea.

"Now, darling, we can't have that. You will injure yourself, even sprain a muscle with such thrashing."

And he secured one stocking to each bedpost and then looped around her ankles.

**

Victoria had resolved to maintain a chilly reserve and treat her husband with civility until the ridiculous situation remedied itself. Under almost any other circumstances she would have been delighted to have the luxury of uninterrupted private time with him, and his undivided attention. She could not accept the sense of being controlled that this farce engendered, nor could she reconcile the man who engineered it with her careful, kind, doting husband, and would not reward him with any show of compliance.

Tying her – _tying_ her _,_ Alexandrina Victoria, his wife and his queen, had gone beyond the pale of what was forgivable. Had he done such a thing under other circumstances it might have been intriguing, even titillating, although she thought not – what pleasure could be obtained from so completely surrendering control of her freedom, her very _person_? But binding her when she was already angry, ignoring her express demand to be released, made her blood boil and it was only with concerted effort that Victoria restrained herself from uttering all manner of curses not fit for a lady's lips.

That he meant her harm never occurred in even the remotest reaches of her imagination. Of course, she was _safe_ with him, she had never felt as completely safe and cared for as she did when he was near, and she might bask in the security of his capable affection. But that he meant to _manage_ her, subdue her, even _teach her a lesson_ in submission went beyond all that was tolerable.

Victoria stared straight ahead, completely ignoring him as he poked at the fire, then took a book from the shelf and brought it back to bed.

"It is too cold to linger. I will join you under those covers and we can share warmth. Then in the morning we will return to Brocket Hall and the trappings of civilization." Melbourne's voice was light-hearted and merry, as though nothing were amiss. He got under the heavy coverlet beside her wearing only his shirt and trimmed the wick of a single guttering candle. Then he began to read.

Despite herself, Victoria felt her tense muscles relaxing into the sound of his voice. Raspy, breaking at places, yet perfectly animated as he read Shakespeare's lines aloud, Melbourne recited the opening to _Taming of the Shrew._ Gradually, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and she wished she might feel his arm about her shoulders without surrendering her icy remoteness. More humiliating was the fact that with legs stretched apart and that most secret place exposed, she felt a familiar coiling in her stomach and warmth begin to spread.

No sooner was Victoria aware of the liquid heat pooling through her nether regions than it seemed he was too. Without pausing in his recital Melbourne allowed one hand to slip beneath the covers and begin stroking her belly, light repetitive caresses that never quite managed to travel lower. It took every ounce of her considerable will to remain motionless when every nerve ending demanded she move, to bring her need to his attention. Instead Victoria stared at a fixed point on the far wall and did multiplication tables in her head.

"That fire must have finally taken. It's growing quite warm in here, don't you think?" Melbourne said suddenly. Victoria thought she heard a disingenuous note in his voice and merely looked away when he rose and threw back the bedcovers. She only looked back, startled out of her determined detachment, when she felt a strange tickling sensation travel from chin to knees.

Melbourne straddled her lower legs, holding a – a _feather?_ A long ostrich plume, such as adorned the hair of debutantes at their presentation. The sensation irritated every nerve ending, until Victoria thought she would be unable to keep from screaming with frustration.

He toyed with her then, setting her senses alight, paying careful attention to every inch of her body except where she wanted him most. Touch so light it might have been illusory, touch as firm as a massage, his fingertips probing deeply, finding pressure points that released every ounce of tension. He paid careful attention to each foot, kneading insteps which chronically ached from standing to receive innumerable visitors, then working his way up her calves, flexing her knees. Before moving on, he would press his lips against her skin, kissing the most unlikely of places. Only when Victoria was simultaneously almost delirious with the most blissful relaxation, bathed in a cocoon of loving warmth, and frantic with the need for more focused release, did her husband redirect his attention. Then she could only gasp, for he used lips and tongue to elicit such sensation she thought she might faint from the intensity. Victoria wanted to clasp his head, to thrash about, but those soft ties which bound her required she only accept what was offered and allow him to set the pace.

When she was sated and could bear no more he released her restraints and coiled his body around her, cradling her head against his chest and crooning in her ear.

"Forgive me, my precious girl?"

Victoria was momentarily confused by his plea, then remembered her earlier anger. She only whimpered a response, nuzzling her lips against the black hairs at the v of his open shirt. His own arousal, untended, pressed against her and Victoria shifted so that she could grasp him. Melbourne gently removed her hand and shook his head.

"This was for you, sweetheart. Now rest."

"How can I rest when you –" But Melbourne shushed her, stroking her hair.

Victoria grinned up at him impishly. "I am no longer bound, my Lord Melbourne, and may do as I wish."


	23. Chapter 23

"We never intended to have a permanent presence in Afghanistan. There are literally thousands of tribes, sub-tribes, clans, all armed to the teeth and loyal to no one except Granddad. Yet I was told that it would be a matter of in and out, the might of the British Army advising our native Indian troops. Not a single drop of English blood would be shed on that rocky soil." Melbourne's tone was dry, heavy with irony. He picked up another flat stone and threw it, cocking his elbow on the throw so it skimmed across the now-placid surface of the Broadwaters. _Difficult to reconcile this mild pond with the raging torrent of water which had swept the baby away_ , had drowned several stout village lads over the summer months.

Another stone, carefully chosen for its flat saucer-like shape, cut a path through the air and landed within inches of the first.

Victoria sat on a large flat rock, warm in the midday sun, quite cozy under the heavy barn coat which dwarfed her small frame.

They were not alone. Cameron, her guard and so much more, their friend and Lord M's confidante, one of the few men of his acquaintance not colleagues and peers first. It pleased Victoria greatly to see the years drop off William's handsome countenance when he was relaxed and playful. Not that he was ever anything but the most beautiful man she had ever seen, or the most seemingly at ease in all situations, but when he shed the faint air of melancholy which sometimes seemed to hover she could see the boy he had been, the young man time had stolen before they could meet.

His wonderful head of thick curly hair needed a barber, and made him even more beautiful to behold, silver-threaded strands caressing his chiseled cheeks. He had not bothered with proper cravat or town coat, merely rugged trousers and scarred knee-high leather boots under his long green country coat.

She let the men talk between them, basking in the sound of William's voice, his carefree laughter. Lord M knew so much about everything, and unlike most cared little about persuading anyone to accept his point of view  Victoria knew even better than most how natural a teacher he was, able to make the driest of subjects come alive with colorful anecdotes. He had an opinion on everything, well-thought-out and indicative of his reflective mind, yet made no attempt to convince. Nothing pleased him so well as hearing an alternative point of view, another way of looking at things. 

Despite the autumn chill Lord Cameron stood in bare feet, his own trousers rolled to the knees, and every once in a while he would dart forward without warning, gliding into the water and pulling a fish up as if performing a magic trick. The poor thing would be dispatched mercifully with a sharp blow to the head and join the small mound of its fellows on shore.

They had spent a very chilly night, the Queen and Lord Melbourne, made bearable only by the heavy quilt and the warmth they shared. It was, Victoria thought, very cozy under the bedcovers together, which made rising even more awful a prospect. Her husband had risen before her and she dimly felt him tenderly arranging the down comforter under her chin. She fell back asleep, awakening once more only when he called her name.

He had brought with him a pot of his coffee, sending up thick clouds of steam. There was none of her favored hot chocolate to be had, but he had brought fresh thick clotted cream and a bowl of white sugar. She found a round loaf of still-warm bread wrapped in a pristine white napkin and strawberry preserves. He had laid in provisions for them, she recalled him saying, but did that include _hot_ fresh coffee and _warm_ bread? How resourceful he was, her dear husband!

Victoria said so, lifting an eyebrow skeptically, but she knew her face was soft with sleep and love, and he accepted the compliment with inclined head.

"I am, aren't I?" Victoria laughed at the pretense of modesty and then giggled when he pressed his face into the hollow between her breasts, so his rough unshaven chin tickled. When she looked down at the beloved curly head Victoria clasped it, pressing kisses against his hair. She remembered her wrath of the evening before, and all the heated words she had flung at him.

"I was awful, Lord M. Really awful! When I get angry I say anything that comes to mind. I don't mean – did I say anything especially horrid?"

"I was not attending," he admitted ruefully. "I was admiring what a fine figure you make when you're in a temper. My pretty little shrew."

Victoria watched his hands, those beautiful hands with the long sensitive fingers which brought her so much exquisite pleasure, as he added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to the coffee he was fixing for her. He took his own black, a taste she could not acquire even to emulate him.

"Do you remember when it was you first thought of me _that_ way? Not as a Queen, or even a girl you felt affection for, but as a woman you wanted to make love to?"

Victoria leaned back against the headboard, hands cupped around her cup for the warmth, and watched him consider her question.

"If not immediately, it was only because I was too overwhelmed by the novelty of feeling my heart leave my own body and unite with yours. And because you were still only a girl, and my Queen. Every inch of you a Queen."

"When we spent so many hours together, even at the beginning, did you ever think of—of making love to me? Of being my first lover?"

"I did not dare," Melbourne answered simply.

"Then when?"

"The Coronation Ball. You were quite tipsy, and you did not want to retire. You wanted to…to dance with me. And more, I suspected, although you did not know it yourself. And that tore down all my defenses, made me acknowledge what had to be. What could never be, or so I thought." Melbourne drank his own coffee down and Victoria watched the movement of his throat, of his Adam's apple. How she loved every inch of him! she thought. The finest of men, wisest, most beautiful, most tender.

"And you?" He asked then. "When did you decide that your fatherly affection for your old Prime Minister might be something else?"

"William, do not say that. You are not old, and I never saw you as a father. You were the first person ever to look at me and see _me_. And in you I saw – something inevitable. I saw the future and knew it would be glorious."

The sun moved high enough in the sky to send its beams directly into their window.

"I brought fresh water for you to wash, but it's cold. Too cold to shave with, so you will have to endure this." Melbourne rubbed his chin so the beard made a rasping sound against his hand.

"And wear yesterday's clothing?" Victoria made an expression of distaste. "I see you have found a change of clothing."

"I had anticipated – oh, hell, I suppose I didn't plan this as well as I thought. Do you want to return to Brocket Hall immediately?"

Victoria had been getting to her feet, but at his words she stopped and turned around to face him. She was entirely naked, her skin prickled with goosebumps, nipples hard. Melbourne pulled the quilt from the bed and draped it about her.

"As romantic as it would be to loll about in bed all day with this vision in front of me, I will not force you to endure more. I am not very practical about such mundane details and will not have you suffer as a result."

"Oh, darling!" Victoria huffed a laugh and pushed him back to sit on the edge of the bed. She straddled his legs, facing him, and rested her forearms on his shoulders.

"It was very exciting, and I _never_ get to have adventures. I did think I was being kidnapped by radicals or highwaymen."

"And you handled yourself wonderfully. _Gloriana!_ You might have been a great warrior Queen, in an earlier age."

"And you my King, darling."

"Your maid would make a fine warrior too. She broke Will's nose."

"Will Cowper? But how- ah…."

"There are few I would trust with a role in our little escapade, ma'am. Do me the credit of acknowledging that I would not let just anyone play a part in kidnapping my beautiful wife."

"Well…poor Will. I am sure she was quite sorry when it was explained to her that…what was explained to her and the servants at Brocket Hall?"

"Merely that there was a change in plans for reasons of security. Cameron handled that end. Few dispute him."

" _Billy_ really took part in the masquerade? I don't believe it."

"He took some convincing, but I can be mightily persuasive. And he trusts me with you, to his credit. He would not allow it to proceed without playing a part – without overseeing the arrangements, in fact."

"Then we have him to thank for the wet firewood and dust motes?"

"No." Melbourne laughed, taking hold of her hips as she drew the quilt over them both to make a tent of sorts.

Victoria's thighs were spread wide and she jiggled on his knees as a child might, wiggling to get comfortable.

"You must get dressed before you catch a chill," he said half-heartedly, his gaze fixed on a point below her navel.

"Have I said yet, that I do miss the luxury of time with you? Not time squeezed in between my other obligations and dinners with the household and the tedium of having to spend hours every evening in the drawing room with half a dozen others even when we are not entertaining. I am…" Victoria lowered her eyes shyly. "I am happy you miss it too. Let's not go back yet – quite yet. I cannot endure another night freezing in this place, or washing without my maid to heat water, but…show me around first?"

"First? Second, perhaps? There is something else I would like to do first…"

* * *

The air warmed quickly under a bright sun and clear azure sky. When Victoria ventured downstairs, she looked around curiously. The lodge was well-proportioned and clearly a gentleman's house, despite its unprepossessing late-night image. There was no sign of a woman's presence here, neither Lady Melbourne nor Lady Caroline Lamb. The sideboards showed signs of recent dusting that had left long dull streaks, and when Victoria saw rodent droppings in the corners of a hastily swept floor she shivered with distaste. It might be a charming private residence reserved for just such weekends away from everyone… with at least a few servants discreetly in place, and a few more amenities than a husband might think were necessary. That thought made Victoria smile fondly, thinking of Lord M. Her William was all things wise and wonderful, but he was no more a rustic, able to contend with primitive conditions and contrive without servants, than she was.

They walked out the front door together and Melbourne took her down to the banks of the wide lazy Broadwaters. He pointed in the direction of Brocket Hall proper, and to the Palladian bridge over which she recalled traveling the night before. The Lodge was clearly built for utilitarian purpose, with none of the artful landscaping and garden follies which surrounded Brocket Hall. It was, she thought, a plain sturdy building, made of cantilevered red brick with a gray slate roof.

"What's in the other direction?" She asked, swinging his hand as they strolled the banks of the Broadwater.

Melbourne answered vaguely, sweeping his hand toward the other side of the house. _Woodland,_ he said, _good for hunting grouse. Stables._

They strolled aimlessly, no destination in mind – none, in fact, in view. The land was flat in all directions, only gently sloping up from the water across the way. While they walked they talked, the sort of abbreviated idle chat which would have sounded like nonsense to any within earshot. The Queen and her consort, senior statesman the second Viscount Melbourne discussed which of the recent musicales had been most difficult to bear. Melbourne had no appreciation of music, Victoria said, and he agreed, allowing only that if one must applaud a buxom soprano she might at least present a well-turned ankle. Their conversation was as innocent as it was absurd, and yet no sooner did a thought occur than it flowed outward so that the perfect meeting of two minds gave it an irreplaceable charm. Which lady resorted to augmentation of an unfortunately flat bustline, whether it had been pleasant for the Josephine, celebrated beauty, to wed the pugnacious little Emperor. Melbourne traced some of the Byzantine Whig family ties which connected him by blood or marriage to most of the great families of England, despite his new title and family name. What Devonshire House had been like in the '90s, and the tales of Lady G he had grown up hearing from his mother's lips. Even, how unusual it was for great ladies – any ladies, really – to indulge in intimate friendships with their own gender.

" _How_ intimate?" Victoria had asked suspiciously, sure he was toying with her, seeing how far her naivete would stretch. "Surely you don't mean kissing and hugging and—" her brows came together as she struggled with that line of thought, but her imagination could take her no farther. _"Surely not--?"_

Melbourne only huffed a soft laugh and looked down at her meaningfully, then tucked her hand more tightly in his arm.

"Many ladies show physical affection for each other in private. Some, even, in the presence of their lords."

Victoria's mouth worked, opening and closing soundlessly. Her color heightened, she peered up at him, stumbling toward understanding.

"Oh," she said finally.

"It is one more way of showing affection and sharing pleasure, although the two things are not necessarily dependent on one another."

"I would never like another female that well," Victoria said firmly. Then, "Did – did you ever know any ladies who were so fond of one another that they did that?"

Melbourne hummed and strolled along, smiling mischievously.

They continued to banter as their course took them finally around the rear of the house. Victoria saw horses grazing in a small stable yard and sniffed the air.

"Wood smoke," she said.

"Mmmhmmm," was Melbourne's only response.

"William…" Victoria stopped walking and tightened her fingers on his arm sharply. "We are not alone here."

Melbourne looked about him with an expression of exaggerated innocence. "We appear to be quite alone at present. And certainly, we were alone previously. I would not have tolerated any intrusion during the night, when I was alone with my wife. Why, do you suspect intruders? Perhaps the brigands who accosted you?"

"William, do not tease me. I warn you –"

Melbourne laughed easily. "We were quite alone in the house, my darling girl. And we are as alone as we wish to be outdoors. But no, even I am not so daring I would attempt to smuggle off the Queen of England completely unguarded, to an isolated location."

"When I wanted to leave – you told me that I couldn't because – you barred the door, you _tied_ me…" her voice had risen, and he laid a finger on her lips.

"Are you angry I did so? Should I beg pardon once more?"

Victoria closed her mouth before speaking further and frowned briefly. Then she shook her head, smiling once more.

"No, you know I am not. And no. But don't tease me now. Who is here?"

"Cameron and a few hand-picked men to guard you. He would have it no other way and to be honest, neither would I. The Chartists have been active in the south, and Irish rebels to the north. You could in fact be used as a pawn, or to discredit the government, and I have some enemies within the Radical movement myself. Not O'Connell, he is not a brigand, and his only violent impulses lie in his agitating the lower elements. There are still some who blame me for personally seeing to it Dic Penderyn was hung to set an example. He's become a martyr of sorts, at least the idea of him."

"But you were the one who kept a cool head and resisted those who urged martial law and a drastic increase in the power of magistrates to suppress protest. It was you who always gave the protestors audience and refused to pass emergency legislation against sedition. It was thanks to you those arrested received fair trials and even legal representation. You commuted the sentences of many and –"

Melbourne held up his hand to stop her, laughing softly, touched by her outrage at the very idea some might harbor ill will against him.

"Thank you, sweet girl. I could argue both sides of my own case, prosecution and defense, but we digress. I do apologize for prevaricating to keep you with me last night – I never do that, you know, tell you untruths. In this case…I admit, it was something of a trick."

"Oh, stop, Lord Melbourne. I adore being with you, only you, even if there are rats in the house you also failed to tell me about."

"You compare our Lord Cameron to a rodent then?" Melbourne laughed merrily. Victoria thought how much she loved the sound of his laughter, and the animation in his handsome face.

"So…shall we call your Irish baron and tell him to have his men get ready for us to return? There is an old curricle in the shed, if you don't wish to ride. The carriage was sent on to the Hall."

Victoria sighed and looked thoughtful. Then she turned her face up to his.

"Yes…and no. I truly would prefer to go on to Brocket Hall tonight, but let's send Fanny back and ensure that we can be as alone as we can until we return tomorrow night. Miss Skerrett will remain out of sight and I'm sure the rest of our protectors can find something to do in Hatfield tonight. At the Hall proper we don't require protection."

Melbourne drew her close and folded her into his arms.

" _Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. Amour de ma vie_ ," he whispered, his lips against her hair.

" _Je d'adore_ ," Victoria responded in kind. " _Vous êtes tous les miens_."

**

In the end it was resolved that they would spend the rest of the afternoon at the Lodge. As much as Victoria yearned for a hot bath and clean apartment, for the lovely elegance of Brocket Hall, she could not quite make herself want to leave. Above all she cherished the fact that Melbourne had set such a silly plot in motion because he wanted to be alone with her as much as she craved his undivided attention, and she could not bring herself to relinquish the solitude which was only enhanced by the privations they laughed at together.

The four former soldiers billeted in the stable had managed to sustain a fire, and make hot water and brew coffee and assured her that the time they'd spent in the mountainous regions of Afghanistan had taught them to improvise nicely. They promised the Queen a genuine field camp supper, with fresh fish from the river and potatoes buried in coals to roast.

Victoria took pleasure in watching William relate easily to these men, rougher and far less polished than the courtiers and politicians who customarily peopled his world. _Like a boy_ , she thought fondly, listening to him talk of the battles they'd fought and places they'd seen. Melbourne took a keen interest in their views, shaped by the realities of the battlefield, and encouraged them to overcome any initial reticence.

"Avoid catastrophe if you can," Cameron drawled. "Seemed to be the primary battle order. We weren't there to win, we weren't there to hold ground, we were only there to not lose. The political officers would tell us at General Staff that there was no viable insurgency, when we were out in the field and saw them every night, picking us off one by one. 'Believe us, and not your own eyes and ears' is a hard order to enforce, William."

Several of the fellows strung line on old fishing poles they found, while Cameron showed off his trick of catching fish barehanded. Victoria knew herself nearly forgotten, as wife and as sovereign, when the swearing punctuated every other sentence. She was content to have it so, and even intrigued by this glimpse of another side to her husband, the young man he must have been at Edinburgh and Trinity College, Caro's husband, not hers. It did not bother her unduly, in fact she had long felt an affinity for her predecessor unlike the vituperative witch with whom he had been entangled after her death.

While they argued about ways and means to best catch the fish they would cook for dinner, and what sort of shot might best be employed to bring in a pheasant or two, Victoria basked in the sun and the shared camaraderie. Her hair, left unbound, streamed down her back and William's coat kept her warm and felt like an embrace, and she was just a girl, a young wife, with her husband and his friends on their afternoon by the river. Victoria was aware of that rarest of transient emotions, perfect happiness and contentment.


	24. Chapter 24

Victoria hissed softly as she stepped into the copper tub filled with steaming water. Her maid rushed forward and offered to add cool water, but the Queen waved her off and sat slowly, giving herself time to adjust to the heat. Scented oil had been added in the French fashion, so the water had a silky feel and caressed her limbs most pleasantly. Victoria accepted assistance in soaping and rinsing her long hair, then a towel was wrapped around her head and she dismissed the maid before discarding the bath sheet meant to protect her modesty.

Her bedchamber and the adjoining bathing room at Brocket Hall was once occupied by the first Lady Melbourne, Elizabeth Lamb, William's beloved mother. It was a spacious suite by any standards save those of Buckingham or Windsor, and had been only somewhat altered for its new occupant. Victoria had no firm tastes so William had advised his sister and the result was surprisingly well-suited to a young woman, creamy silk-papered walls and soft sage green and gold furnishings, not the gilt of court but a pale, nearly-yellow shade. A new French chaise to replace the larger, more heavily carved daybed, a vanity more proportionate to the petite occupant and some pleasant landscapes keeping company with lesser-known studies of Victoria and her various dogs, less formal than those which hung at her courts completed the space.

Melbourne's own bedchamber was unchanged, and Victoria guessed that was due in large part to the volume of books and papers piled throughout. It looked, felt, smelled like him, the warm worn shades of blue and burgundy, soft leather arm chairs and yellowed lamp covers, and Victoria liked it more than any other room. There, the air itself held traces of Lord M, and she thrilled anew each time she entered, wanting to pinch herself that the dream of her life had come true and she had the right to enter this most private, most intimate space. Being in that room, curled up in a chair watching him read or write at the table, free to wander about at will, touching the wall hangings, studying the paintings and small art objects collected on his travels, to rub her face against the sleeve of his dressing gown, to crawl into his bed and burrow under the blankets – all that spelled the culmination of everything she had ever wanted. All else was hers to command by right of birth, but what William Lamb had given her he gave freely – his love, his name, his children.

The nursery, which had once housed William and his brothers and sister and then his son, had been completely refurbished by the competent Emily. Only a handful of family pieces – a wooden horse, a rocking chair – remained, all else replaced with bright sturdy pieces to welcome the Prince of Wales and later the Princess Royale. Neither child could ever be acknowledged as Lambs, but as Melbourne said that mattered little since he himself was Wyndham and not Lamb, yet could never carry his own father's name. Victoria felt otherwise, felt it keenly that her children would always be known to the world as Coburgs. They knew the truth, Albert had of course known and delighted in playing favorite uncle on his sporadic visits to the nursery, and as Liam grew anyone who had ever seen the Reynolds painting could not mistake the halo of soft curls and beautiful green eyes. Yet Victoria accepted only with bitter regret that her son, who would inherit a thousand-year throne, could never acknowledge his true parentage.

When she became aware the water had grown cold Victoria shook herself from reverie and called for Skerrett to return. She was patted dry and wrapped in a dressing gown, so her hair could be brushed nearly dry and then braided into a long thick plait.

"Gown, madam?" Victoria debated briefly and decided on a soft dove-gray silk, left over from mourning some European aunt, as the simplest of those on offer. It fit loosely and would not require stays, only a soft chemise and single petticoat. She chose modest pearl drop ear rings and wore only her wedding band.

"Has Lord M gone down?"

"I believe he's with the military gentlemen."

"And Will and Fanny?" Victoria's eyes sparkled, and a small smile teased at the corners of her mouth. The maid, a sturdy girl who might have come from some Yorkshire farm but instead originated in a dockside stew, looked down as though contrite. Victoria knew better. "He understands you were only protecting me. I took the blame for the misunderstanding."

Skerrett's eyes darted up to her face and Victoria saw the girl ready to return her grin. "I woulda gotten him again, ma'am, but I recognized one of the men as Cameron's when I got so far. Else they woulda had to reckon with more than a broken nose."

Victoria patted her arm reassuringly, although clearly the girl required no consolation. "Do you have some help to clean this up?" She waved at the full copper tub and pile of wet towels, but was already halfway to the door, eager to go in search of Lord M.

* * *

The library at Brocket Hall was another pleasant space, by day sun-filled with many floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows. At dusk with the lamps glowing golden and a fire burning merrily in the hearth it was a cozy space, well large enough to accommodate a good-sized gathering, yet the furniture arranged in groupings for ease of conversation.

Bookshelves lined the longest wall, filled to overflowing with volumes Melbourne had collected over many years of voracious reading. During the difficult time with Caroline and the long intervals early in his career when he waited for another seat to open in Parliament, it was here Melbourne would retreat, to immerse himself in other worlds, the ancients, biblical scholars and classical authors. He wrote little – even his commonplace books were only sporadically filled – and Victoria often suggested he begin a comprehensive history of his own career. That, he had retorted, would be the height of insufferable pomposity, and he would leave it to others to decide whether he had said or done anything in a long career worth recording for posterity.

Victoria had thought William had gone up to dress for dinner but to her surprise he still wore the rough clothes he had donned that morning at the lodge and his chin was more heavily shadowed. He was deep in animated conversation with Cameron and another, slender gentleman who resembled the Irishman as little as any brother could. They all looked up when Victoria entered, and first Melbourne himself, then the others belatedly rose.

"You are dressed already? I am afraid I let time run away with me." Melbourne rubbed his chin, clearly chagrined at his appearance. Victoria was not entirely comfortable displaying the same sort of intimate informality before Cameron she would if they were alone.

"Shall I leave? Am I disturbing you?" Her tone was perhaps sharper than she intended, but Victoria felt mildly irked that he could _forget_ her, so engrossed in conversation that even making himself presentable for his wife was overlooked.

Melbourne only grinned, clearly reading her thoughts, and Victoria looked away, flustered, feeling like a spoiled girl.

"I will go find Fanny," Victoria said grudgingly.

"I sent her on her way, ma'am. She lingered only long enough to be sure you would forgive her part in…er…the misunderstanding over our arrangements. Will escorted her."

"Then I will go to the kitchens and check on dinner."

Cameron smirked insufferably, looking to Melbourne rather than the Queen for his orders.

"You'll dine with us of course. And your brother, and your men. It's the fish you caught which will be making an appearance on the table tonight. No French sauces but Mrs. Baines has surely done a creditable job dressing them. We are not formal tonight. Please, be seated. Victoria?"

She knew she was expected to join him in encouraging the man to dine at their table.

"Yes, please, dine with us. If you will excuse me." Victoria inclined her head and swept out of the room with a swish of her skirts.

"Victoria," Melbourne caught up to her in the grand main hallway with its graceful curving staircase, flanked by two marbled passages. He touched her elbow.

"I thought we were going to be alone tonight," she whispered, knowing she sounded sullen, once more a spoiled petulant child.

"We will be. We will have our guests to dine, and retire thereafter. Sweetheart…." Victoria could no more resist that gruff voice than she could the beguiling expression on his handsome features. She lifted a hand and rubbed her palm sensuously across the growth of beard on his jawline. He turned his face so that his lips pressed into her palm and kissed it, darting out the very tip of his tongue to tease her.

Melbourne laid one hand on her waist, his fingers playing against the soft fabric. "No corset? No stays? Just this lovely gown…?"

"Stop!" Victoria laughed softly and stepped back. "Go and dress for dinner."

Instead of complying Melbourne took her hand and laid it on his chest, then slid it downward. "See what you do to me, ma'am?"

Victoria felt the oh-so-familiar length and hardness under the coarse canvas of his trousers. She pressed her palm flat, then ran her fingers further down and cupped what she found there, squeezing gently. He groaned and rocked his hips against her.

"You should have torn yourself away from your friends. I was quite naked in the bath and it made me so very _warm_. Now – I will check in with Mrs. Baines and you will bathe and dress quickly. Don't…do anything which will spoil your appetite." Victoria licked her lips and sashayed away.

They gathered in the family dining room rather than the far grander salon constructed at great expense by the first Viscount's father. That gallery held a table which seated 80 and the walls were lined with old masters, under a ceiling thirty feet high, painted with all twelve signs of the zodiac. It was at a dinner in that chamber, held in honor of William's birthday, that Caroline Lamb was said to have had herself served quite naked in a soup tureen. Victoria had pressed him on the truth of the rumor and he had only smirked, pulled her close and changed the subject. She took that to be validation of yet another legend concerning her notorious predecessor.

Of the men at table only Billy Cameron himself, an Irish Baron by birth and possessor of a more recent English title, confidante of the royal family since Prince Albert's days, was comfortable. His brother, a tightly wound man with serious watchful eyes and stern expression, sat stiffly in place, while the other two men, both accustomed to providing close personal security to the Queen, seemed not to know what to do with elbows and feet or where to look.

Melbourne was still deep in conversation with Cameron, so it fell to Victoria to engage the others in conversation and put them at ease. She listened when she could and overheard frequent use of a female pronoun, only occasionally accompanied by enough context to tell her it was the Indian Maharini, the rebel Sikh Queen, they were discussing. Military matters, then, or political, or diplomatic. Victoria told herself so, yet was not a little put out that every gentleman in her cabinet and now her own husband seemed fascinated by the exotic beauty who dared defy the entire British Army.

It was not to be expected that even under such informal circumstances, keeping country hours, the men would leave the table when she did. Victoria toyed with her own food until it was apparent their guests had eaten their fill, then rose and excused herself so Lord M could have the brandy brought in. She was sure that these former soldiers all used tobacco – Billy Cameron smoked the small rolled tubes called cigarillos in Spain, or cigarettes, in France – but Melbourne disliked the odor and would not permit tobacco to be burned in his dining room. She heard the French door snick closed in its frame and surmised that at least some had stepped out on the flagstone porch to indulge their noxious habit.

Victoria had once found Billy Cameron the most amusing of the cadre of attractive young men with whom Albert surrounded himself. When he first appeared in Albert's salon at the side of his younger brother, he had devoted himself to the young Queen, making it clear he was no sodomite and loudly professing himself her most devoted admirer. At some point he had surmised the precise nature of the relationship between the Queen and her Prime Minister, and took mischievous pleasure in redoubling his flirtation when Melbourne was present.

During a difficult time that it was painful to recall, when the Norton woman was most persistent in her efforts to lure Melbourne back into her life and her bed, Victoria had made a single foolish mistake. In a misguided attempt to make Melbourne jealous and repay him for the anguish she suffered at learning he had begun visiting Mrs. Norton once more, Victoria had deliberately made herself tipsy – more than tipsy, for it took little to render one so small quite intoxicated – and made a clumsy attempt to seduce the big Irishman.

Even at a distance of several years the memory made Victoria burn with humiliation. Cameron had not welcomed her overture, had in fact at greeted her with frank horror mixed with pity, and turned her over to her husband untouched. Victoria knew she would not have gone through with it, had no desire to bed anyone but Lord M, wanted only to hurt him the way he had hurt her, yet she realized her own naivete in putting herself in the hands of a man who could have so readily taken what she seemed to offer. Despite that knowledge, it galled her that he had not even seemed tempted, had rejected her so thoroughly that it made her feel doubly inferior to the glamorous Caroline Norton. The whole episode was so distasteful that no matter how much confidence she reposed in her chief personal protection officer, how agreeable William found his company and how fond the children were of him Victoria held herself as distant possible.

And Jind Kaur. Renowned for her beauty, energy and strength of purpose, regent for her young son and leader of the rebel Sikh army. Described as a Messalina, a seductress too rebellious to be controlled, a legend, and a Queen only a few years older than Victoria herself. _Let Cameron go to India and find his Maharini,_ Victoria thought harshly. It's no business of ours.

Victoria was once more consumed by a fit of pique when Melbourne strolled back into the library, Cameron still at his side. She had been pacing back and forth, wanting to overhear what they were saying and too proud to let them see she cared.

"Come, sit down, ma'am. The others have gone back to the barracks – or to ride into Hatfield in search of amusement, I suspect. Billy is the only guest we have left to contend with and he's no guest at all." Melbourne spoke in his most caressing voice, a tone far too intimate, Victoria decided, to be used in the presence of another.

"Indeed?" She said coolly, lifting her chin and lowering her eyelids in a creditably chilly, even regal, expression meant to quell.

Cameron laughed easily, and Victoria frowned, further irked by his habitual look of amusement, as though they shared a secret from which he derived much humor.

"I think Her Majesty has had enough of me for one day. Good night, sir. Good night, ma'am." He bowed most gracefully for a large man, so that his long hair spilled forward.

"Good night, Lord Cameron," Victoria said with alacrity, eager to be rid of him.

Melbourne took the crystal decanter of French brandy and shook it, gauging the level. "Shall we go upstairs, Mrs. Melbourne? We can be comfortable there."

Victoria began to say no, then decided there was no real point to argue such a simple matter.

"Very well, sir," she said. "Bring a second glass, please. I would like some too."

Amused, Melbourne took two glasses and led Victoria up the stairs.

They went into his apartment, where a small cozy sitting room opened onto the corridor, his bedchamber behind. Melbourne set down his burden and poured for himself, then filled the second glass with a scant inch of amber liquor. Victoria took it defiantly and steeled herself for the acrid burning before swallowing brandy down like medicine.

"Slowly, sweetheart, slowly." Victoria thought he sounded slightly tipsy, not enough to be inebriated but his speech and gestures seemed looser. It was, she thought, quite an attractive alteration, as though he might be just a bit unpredictable. She remembered how he had ignored her and turned away, seating herself in a corner of the small sofa. Melbourne sprawled beside her.

"Shall I tell you what Cameron's heard from the Punjab? It's far more enlightening than the dispatches Russell brings you. His sources are from the field, devoid of polish and _politesse_."

Without waiting for a response Melbourne began describing, as only he could, so that she could see, hear and even smell, in vivid detail, information he must have heard third-hand. Victoria regretted consuming the brandy so rapidly, for her head buzzed and her limbs felt oddly liquid and loose. She relinquished the last of her ire and slid over to lay her head on his lap, allowing his voice to wash over her.

It was so very pleasant and good, to be here alone with William and able to devour his words, see another world, so exotic, so different from the staid English court.

"How I wish I could see it all someday!" She said suddenly. "Do you think someday I could travel to India? France, Spain, Italy are all so like England but India – oh, it sounds like another world, yet part of my kingdom."

Melbourne paused a long while, as though considering. Then he said something surprising, the more so because it was said in a tone of utmost seriousness although surely, he had to be teasing.

"Probably not, my love. But…perhaps I could go, for you."


	25. Chapter 25

He was unprepared for the instantaneous effect of those offhand words. Her sweet heart-shaped face crumpled, those blue eyes swam with tears and the lips, smiling just a moment before, trembled.

 _Damn me_ , Melbourne cursed himself, belatedly understanding the import of words no different on the surface than any others.

"Sweetheart – Victoria, look at me. I didn't mean – it's a schoolboy fantasy, that's all. To travel to exotic places, have grand adventures, free of responsibility. It's not what _I_ want, not now, not here and probably not ever, in truth. It's not who I _am_. The George Byrons of the world, the Trelawneys, Billy Cameron…my own brother, but not I."

Melbourne spoke his own truth, bittersweet as it was to admit. He had never truly longed for adventure any more than he relished unpredictability or disorder. Tranquility, above all, and now of course the longed-for prize of deep sustaining affection, someone who needed the great reserve of love he had to give, to need and adore him in return. The rest was an amusing invention, formed of Billy Cameron's tales from the east, that man's rugged acceptance of whatever came his way and pursuit of risk for the sheer exhilaration. And, Melbourne conceded, a certain restless discontent that came over him more often lately. Discontent not for what he had – his precious girl, the children – but what he no longer did, a purpose, relevance and a sense that he was part of something greater. Awareness of time wasted, time slipping away.

The notion that he would seriously consider going off to the east, leaving her and the children behind, had bypassed Victoria's ready, protective shield of pride and anger and struck her like a blow. Her thin shoulders shook so his heart broke for his own carelessness. Melbourne reached for her, to pull her into an embrace, and then her anger shook over and she twisted out of his grasp.

He sat back and lifted her bodily onto his lap as he might a small child, forcing her head against his chest. The fight went out of her quickly and soon enough her face was pressed into his shirtfront, wetting it with her tears.

 _Victoria_ , he said the name in his mind. _Gloriana_ , but so small, so fragile under all the bluster. Melbourne smoothed her hair with his hand, crooning her name, murmuring nonsense syllables meant to soothe and console. This girl in his arms, this was the beginning and end of all life for him and everything else just stage dressing.

Gradually her whimpering subsided, as Melbourne held her face tenderly in both hands and pressed kisses on her eyelids, her temples, that elegant jawline, her lips…

"Better?" he whispered finally, as Victoria burrowed herself into him with a sigh. She nodded, still childlike, humbled in her fear he could leave her, no longer the prickly proud young Queen. Only a girl… _his_ precious girl, his darling.

She clung to him when he took her to his bed, clasped his shoulders and pressed her flesh against his so he couldn't help but respond. Victoria remained strangely passive, for such a hot-blooded creature as she was. Her body's reaction told him she was ready, but she initiated no action, only accepting his caresses and then, when he rolled atop her and guided himself in, wrapping her legs around him as tightly as she could manage, drawing him further into her warmth, digging her fingers into his back.

After he felt her soft tremors, the rhythmic clenching inside, and poured himself into her – _suddenly remembering forgotten condoms, the damn French sheaths he'd neglected to bring_ – Melbourne rolled off and pulled the thick quilt over them both.

"Victoria…I spoke without thinking because you are my best friend and confidante, because we share all our thoughts with one another, no matter how silly or impossible. I swear to you if I was told – _ordered_ – to go tomorrow, the notion of going away, far from you, would be intolerable. Like many men, most I suppose, I like to imagine I am more than I am."

Victoria propped herself up on an elbow and closely examined his face, staring deeply into his eyes, her own gaze probing.

"William, you are – you are everything. If you were not my husband, if you did not love me, you would still be the finest man I've ever known. The stability of the country, the reason we are not constantly on the verge of revolution as are the French or so many other more unsettled regions, is due to you. You gave all sides the assurance their views were heard and taken into account and you found some middle ground. Our people do not feel rebellion is their only option to have a say in their own destiny. When the strikes painted you as the enemy you made sure our Constitution stood strong and the rights of even seditionists were honored. What other nation provides lawyers for criminals? Someday all civilized people might do so, to ensure the rights of the poor and oppressed, but you were the first. Right here, in our country."

Melbourne smiled sheepishly, aware that he had sounded so self-pitying she felt the need to spring to his defense.

His too-familiar bouts of melancholy were at the root of the dissatisfaction he felt. Like an old dog it slunk up on soft paws, settling beside him of its own volition. No litany of his many reasons to be content would hold it at bay, any more than past episodes of keenly felt pain – the sharp grief of Caro's passing, the duller but no less painful mourning when Augustus breathed his last, a dozen other tragedies large and small – called the beast to his side. Melancholy would simply appear one day, and for as long as it stayed would overshadow all else, coloring his thoughts, until it vanished again, without rhyme or reason. As a young man he had given in, let the formless gray miasma of depression take charge, isolate himself from society for days or weeks at a time. Later he learned that life would happily dish out enough true anguish, that it gained him nothing to surrender to the shadows in his own mind. Then busyness was the remedy, that and the gentle whimsy for which he was known, and the mental agility which allowed him to find humor in nearly any circumstance, even the bleakest.

Now that he knew, Melbourne would discard the thoughts as soon as they formed, those false promises that something better waited over the next horizon. Happiness was here, now, in this bed, under this roof or any other which sheltered the warm bundle of girl in his arms. Anything else was merely the vaporous exhalation of the gloomy beast, and if he ignored them the megrims would vanish again.

"Come now, put on your night dress. What? No gown? Put on my shirt then. We won't disturb the good Miss Skerrett so late." Melbourne took his discarded shirt and pulled it over her head, as she held her arms out like a compliant child. Victoria, so tiny, swallowed up in one of his shirts, looked unbearably precious. Of all her Court gowns and lacy French negligees, he thought it was quite his favorite of all the images etched into his mind.

"There, that's better. I will ask you again, are you quite clear that whatever foolishness I might indulge, it's no more than that? And even in at that, parting from you is no part of my imagining?" He held her chin in his hand and tipped her face up. Victoria nodded and then yawned. Satisfied, Melbourne lay back against the pillows and extended his arm so that she could nestle herself within its protection.

**

The room was still inky-black, the darkness not even relieved by moon or stars, when Victoria was awakened by a whispered sound. She blinked in the dark and held her breath, listening. Beside her he slept, turned on his side to face her. _At the door then_ , she thought. A light scratching, such as might be made by mice in the baseboards – _or rats_ – came from the door leading to Lord M's dressing room.

Victoria sat up carefully, to avoid jostling her husband, and swung her legs to the rug spread beside the bed.

 _"Ma'am,"_ Victoria heard the word, hardly more than a breath, but enough to reassure her. She padded across the floor and opened the door a crack.

Her lady's maid stood, pale face pressed against the opening, finger to her lips. She stepped back, her meaning clear, and Victoria, puzzled, stepped into the dressing room.

The summons Skerrett delivered was puzzling but no reason for fright.

"Me? Not Lord Melbourne?" Victoria asked, keeping her voice low.

The girl shook her head emphatically.

"Very well. Bring my dressing gown, please." Victoria followed her into the unused bedchamber beyond – Lord Melbourne's master suite did not adjoin her own but connected to the space which had belonged to his late wife. They had never changed the arrangement since Emily had put her in the spacious, sunny apartment once occupied by Lord M's mother. A more desirable apartment, to be sure, but Victoria made mental note that perhaps it was time to alter things. She harbored a superstitious reluctance to dislodge her predecessor completely, even though Caroline's gowns and personal effects had been removed to her family home shortly after Victoria had welcomed William to her bed.

The lovely rooms, still in the wee hours of the night, were not nearly as cold as the dank unused air of the Lodge had been. It was chill enough that Victoria accepted her own dressing gown from Skerrett's hands with gratitude and huddled within its comforting folds. She followed her maid down the back stairway leading to the kitchens, a plain passage, well dusted but devoid of ornamentation.

A lamp burned in the kitchen, where Mrs. Baines stood buttering toasted bread and spreading it thick with jam. A pot of coffee sat on the plain wooden table where the servants took their meals, and Billy Cameron held a large chipped mug in both hands.

The housekeeper had obviously been recently awakened. Her steel-gray curls escaped from a nightcap in stiff spirals, and her plain flannel wrapper stretched taut over an ample bosom. She clucked when she saw Victoria's bare feet and shot a baleful glance at the maid.

As if by prearrangement Mrs. Baines dipped a brief curtsy to the mistress of the house – and the nation – and backed out of the room, holding tight to Skerrett's arm. When Cameron rose he towered over Victoria, and she craned her neck to see that he was dressed more roughly than his frequent Court appearances required. A brimmed hat such as the Cavalry officers in Canadian regiments favored hung on his back, suspended by a leather string, and a long caped great-coat made him seem even larger and more imposing.

"I should say I'm sorry for so rudely awakening you," he drawled, the Irish still in his voice despite an absence of more than ten years. "But I'm not. I am damned glad you condescended to come."

Still holding the mug in one hand, Cameron leaned casually against the sideboard, booted legs crossed at the ankles.

"I'm leavin' again, this time without fanfare, and I wanted to tell you myself."

"To the East, I suppose?" Victoria surprised herself at the ease she felt, the absence of the tension which usually loomed between them. Rather, she thought, which came from her, for Billy Cameron was as relaxed as he always was, neither respectful of rank nor disrespecting of her person.

He nodded. "It's time and more that I'm gone, on to whatever's out there callin' me. Your husband can take care of his family without my help."

"You will rejoin your regiment?"

"No, that ship has sailed." He laughed, and Victoria thought what an uncomplicated, good-humored man he was. "Literally, that ship has sailed. I've bought passage on a Company ship, and the trains which'll take me to Egypt. From there I'll make my own way. I have a yen to see the famous maharini up close and I don't want to do that hindered by a set of colors."

"What will you do?" Victoria frowned, puzzling it over.

"Why, knock on her door, I suppose. I don't hold with this business of our deciding who should rule and booting any out of their rightful place when we think the regime needs changin'. Nor do I think highly of Your Majesty's government sending the whole damn Army after one little woman just trying' to hold onto her own country and protect her child's rightful inheritance. We killed her brother, you know. We offered him safe passage to make terms, then strangled him right outside her own gates."

"You'd fight against us?" Victoria knew her shock was plain.

"I'd hate to fire against boys I led once, but I'm betting it will be the Company army, the private force they maintain, and probably a few native regiments in front of them as cannon fodder."

"Do you think what we are doing is wrong? Do we not have a God-given duty to spread civilization, and prosperity, and a constitutional monarchy, if not democracy? To spread the word of God, bring advances in education and –"

Cameron was laughing once more, softly, merrily and without a harsh edge, but Victoria flushed and drew herself up to stand tall.

"Don't get on your high horse, ma'am. Of course, we don't have a duty to do any of those things, and those who spread that pretty fairy tale don't believe it themselves. The Company – and your government, ma'am, and your country – care about power and money. Trade, the trade in opium to the Chinese which has addicted a million men in the last ten years, brings money flowing into the Company, and the banks, and Your Majesty's own treasury. Now don't take offense. I understand how it all works, and that your role is not to make law or policy. There's precious little you can do about it all, and if you tried they'd as soon put you aside as they will the maharini. Put your boy on the throne with a regency, the way they will do hers, and continue to run things as they see fit. Lord Melbourne understands, and I know he guides you wisely."

Victoria found she could say nothing to refute him, because she genuinely did not know the truth of it. But something in his words had the ring of truth, implacable, pragmatic fact.

"If what you say is true, what _can_ I do?" She knew she sounded almost plaintive and cursed her own wavering.

"Not a helluva lot, ma'am, but what you already do. Be the heart, the conscience, of the country and temper their warmongering when you can, how you can, without jeopardizing your own position. You know. You do it already."

"You must have little reason to respect me or what I stand for." She stated it baldly, her own tone only regretful and vaguely ashamed.

"Oh no, ma'am, not at all. I think what you stand for is the best in us all. You are what we think we should be, what we want to be, and what we need to see as a possibility. Hell, if you didn't exist someone would have to invent you. Now…may I have a goodbye kiss?"

Victoria's eyes flew open in surprise at the sudden change in topic, and tone, and yet she was not as shocked as she knew she should be. She moved her head in the slightest possible sign of assent, a mere lift of her chin, and he leaned forward. Victoria could not meet his eyes, but neither could she look away so instead kept her gaze fixed on his face.

The touch of his lips on her cheek was startling, a chaste kiss that might come from an uncle or brother. It still brought him near enough that Victoria could smell the foreign mix of scents, leather and horse and tobacco and something more purely animal than Lord M's infinitely familiar odor.

"Yeah," Cameron drawled, moving back once more. "If you didn't exist I'd have to invent you for sure. Someone to whom I can give my heart and never want it back…someone on a pedestal, unattainable. So I can continue to have my fun. I'm not the kind to settle down, but it helps to remember a pair of blue eyes when I'm halfway to thinking it might not be so bad to have the same woman in my bed two nights in a row."

Victoria knew she should be shocked, and freeze him for such crude insolence, but instead she only allowed a small smile to tighten her lips. "I think you have many lady friends from whom to choose, Lord Cameron. From what my attendants say, there are quite a few contenders."

"'Ladies', ma'am? You are too generous. Those aren't relationships. That's exercise."

Victoria was suddenly reminded that she wore a dressing gown and little more, standing with this big man alone in the middle of the night. Yet she could not bring herself to fear him.

"Like you, I had one heart to give, and I gave it to you, the same as you gave yours to him. Lord Melbourne is a good man, the best man I've ever known. If we had a hundred like him this country would never send another boy to die in a futile fight over some rocky patch of ground, or a ship full of opium. Take good care of him, ma'am. You and the children are fortunate to have him."

"I know that, Billy. You don't have to remind me."

"No, but I need to remind myself, you standing there so pretty and tempting and if I'm not mistaken, not wearing much under that dressing gown." His companionable grin gave the lie to his words, or at least, Victoria thought, to the intent he meant to convey. She knew suddenly, surely, that this was a good man too, a man who could be trusted beneath his insolent bluster.

"Please write to us, Billy. I want to understand, truly understand, what is happening in my name. Write to William, so that my ministers don't interfere with your correspondence. And…don't take foolish chances. We hope to see you again someday."

Cameron turned his broad back to her, carefully pouring out the dregs of his coffee, setting the cup on a rack to dry with movements oddly fastidious for such a rugged man. When he turned to face her once more Victoria saw that his kind eyes were sad and serious, with none of the laughter she was so accustomed to seeing there. For a long moment she met and held his gaze, and then he broke the spell, digging into the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a handful of gold coins.

"I am a lucky man. I can carry a picture of the girl I love with me, wherever I end up." It was, of course, her image that graced each £5 sovereign. Victoria felt her cheeks warm but did not look away.

"One more kiss for the road, and then I'm gone. I'll let you say my goodbyes to your husband." Before Victoria could react – and she did not know what reaction she might have given, if she had the chance – he bent once more and this time, his mouth found hers. He was gentle, nearly reverent, but he kissed her as a lover would, no brotherly peck this time. His lips, dry, firm, pressed against hers until she yielded and allowed her mouth to open under his. As soon as it did he stood up and laughed brusquely.

"That's that, then. I'm off. Give my regards to Lord Melbourne. With your permission I'll stop at Windsor to say goodbye to Liam and Lily, and still be gone before the whole place is stirring."

With that he left, slamming the door behind him while Victoria still stood spellbound. _How peculiar_ , she thought. _He is the only man other than William to kiss me so and will be the last._ She knew she should regret it but did not; knew she should feel ashamed of her compliance, but shame did not come. He was not William, and she did not ache with wanting him the way she did William, but he was a good man who loved her for herself and that was too great a gift to refuse.

When Victoria went back upstairs, she moved slowly, with great deliberation. Several times she brushed her lip with a finger, exploring. _Is that how it begins_? She mused. _Is that how it began for Caro?_ No, she thought. From all she'd heard Caro had long been restless and searching, seeking sensation for sensation's sake and to escape the turmoil in her own mind. Lord Byron had been an obsession, a fever, but he was not the only lover she took. Caro needed to be the heroine of her own drama, needed the attention of men, fed off their desire, William had told her, explaining the enigma that was his marriage with neither bitterness nor condemnation. Byron himself had rued Caroline Lamb's steadfast devotion to her husband, the great storms of remorse which would overtake her even during lovemaking with the poet. She had proclaimed William the kindest, the best of men, and she herself not fit to kneel at his feet.

 _Could I ever -?_  Victoria posed the question to herself, turning it every which way in her mind. _No,_ was the answer. _Even if – even if William was not_ – her mind would not let her form the words, lest they conjure some curse – even if he did not exist, she could not lay down with another man, could not love another man the way she loved him, could not open her mind, her heart, her body to another man. Lord M was hers and she his, indelibly imprinted on her very being.

And yet, kissing Billy had been not entirely unpleasant.

**

Victoria laid her dressing gown at the foot of the bed and walked on her knees to join William once more. He opened his eyes blearily and she adored him with her gaze, combing her fingers through the tangled disarray of his curls. Once again, he stretched out his arm, beckoning her to him, and once again Victoria settled herself within the protection of his embrace. She slid her cold feet between his legs for warmth and laid her hand on his stomach.

"Tell me," Melbourne said softly, lips pressed against her hair. Victoria thrilled to the reminder that this man knew her entirely, to her very core, knew her far better than she knew herself. "He's gone off again?"

And so, keeping her head against his chest so she could hear the infinitely reassuring beat of his heart, Victoria told him.


	26. Chapter 26

 

The night air was beyond crisp – gardeners had readied the plantings for a hard frost – when Her Majesty descended the stairway on her husband's arm. Several of her female companions followed, and at the ready stood closed carriages which would transport the royal party to their various destinations.

Heedless of the eyes on them, Lord Melbourne adjusted the collar of his wife's cloak, a gesture made ostensibly in reaction to the temperature but in fact one of those many small signs of the unabashed love between them which stirred jealous envy in even the most benign observer.

Victoria raised a small gloved hand and tweaked a fold of her husband's cravat in return. He caught it and pressed his lips into her palm.

"Enjoy the opera, ma'am," Melbourne said smoothly, in a low, intimate tone.

"And you, husband. Enjoy the – dinner you attend with your friends." Her own tone was a touch acerbic, and she tilted her head beguilingly with a look that spoke volumes. Love, tolerance, bemusement in equal measure perhaps – it was the look of a woman, a wife, and not the worshipful young girl she had been, and that pleased Melbourne greatly. As much as he adored the sweet child who had so effortlessly captured his heart, their bond had only grown deeper as Victoria matured.

"Oh, I will. And this time I will make a point to note all those details which previously I took for granted. _Pour toi, mon amour_."

Melbourne handed his wife into her carriage and then stepped back, watching until they were out of sight. Then he climbed into the smaller conveyance which would deliver him to an address in Pall Mall.

* * *

A fine four-story town home in the Georgian style, white-washed brick with sharp black-painted trim, the last of summer's bright blooms in elegant Grecian containers set amongst meticulously barbered shrubbery. A tall iron fence surrounded the property, no different than many in the wealthy section of town, and if this once was several feet taller than its neighbors, the gate securely fastened, it was not exceptional.

Nothing untoward hinted that this residence was the scene of unsavory activities, and for the most part it was not. Mrs. Grivening, known to those gentlemen who travelled in circles elite enough to garner them entry as the Duchess, prided herself on a fastidiousness which would not have been out of place amongst the highest sticklers, had she ever crossed those thresholds. She had spent many years and more money than she liked to remember on a series of instructors lured from fine private seminaries for young ladies. These preceptresses had only polished to perfection those manners which Charlotte Grivening learned early on from her gentlemen callers and the wives and daughters which accompanied them to Covent Gardens and the various public expositions London offered. The merest trace of her broad North vowels remained, and no lessons in deportment could eliminate a sharp measuring expression but overall, she presented no overtly offensive appearance which might earn censure from those who understood the necessity of a business such as hers.

Lord Melbourne had been frequenting this house, and its predecessors, since his youth, as did his Trinity College fellows and every other gentleman of his acquaintance. Those who claimed otherwise, the tight-lipped religious fanatics, were no different, except in their tastes. Those were shunned at the better houses, where there were standards of behavior and decorum to be observed. It was common knowledge that the more prudish the man, the more deviant his desires, the more grim and joyless a task it was to service him.

Houses such as Charlotte Grivening's served a multitude of purposes, far beyond the one which only the uninitiated assumed. Gentlemen's clubs were the most common destination for those wishing to spend a convivial evening with congenial companions, generally aligned by political persuasion, but these did not always meet the need for discretion and informality.

The most notable salons offered an opportunity for men to come together at table, to engage in lively discourse which lowered barriers and lubricated by social interaction the workings of government. Caroline Norton had once acted on Melbourne's behalf and it was well known that at her salons she was the conduit for feelers he might send, gauging willingness to compromise on some issue or other, make and receive overtures from some ostensible ideological foe, even reach out to adversarial foreign ministers while maintaining plausible deniability that enabled everyone to save face with their own constituents.

The entrance hall, if not large or especially grand, could readily be that of any of the _ton_. A pair of liveried footmen wearing the buff, brown and gold livery of the house, stood at attention, leaping forward to take the new arrival's hat and walking stick. The butler would not have been out of place in Buckingham House, and only the keenest sports aficionado might mark the crooked nose of a former pugilist retired from the boxing ring.

Multiple doors, all gleaming with fresh black paint, opened off the main hallway and it was here that an especially suspicious observer would note the first distinguishing feature – the quantity of carefully closed, exceptionally stout doors, and the presence of a footman outside each. Other than that small thing, the gleaming chandeliers, fresh beeswax candles and tables polished to a glass-like sheen were all to be found in any fine home.

The arrival of Lord Melbourne was not announced. Discretion was expected and provided. If his arrival spurred any interest, it was less because he was the husband of the sovereign – the romantic tale of young Queen and much-older statesman husband was old news and regarded with no more than warm approbation – and much more because he was a favorite, rarely seen and much fawned over.

Those inhabitants of the house who had been chosen to serve Lord Melbourne and his party were the subject of much acrimonious bickering amongst the less fortunate girls.

Mrs. Grivening – the title a mere honorific for none had seen a Mr. Grivening – exercised the most stringent standards in determining which girls were accepted into her house. Even in this select group of females, those who would wait on Lord Melbourne and his guests were hand-picked. None amongst this generation of young women had bedded the Viscount, although any of them would have happily forfeited a considerable sum to do so if given the chance, and Charlotte Grivening retained only one of those who exercised a supervisory role that had done so previously.

When the females who disported themselves in the finest drawing room saw Lord Melbourne saunter in they watched him with admiration. _Such a distinguished gentleman_ , was the universal opinion. _So handsome, and with such kind, laughing eyes_. Some praised his trim, straight physique, a rarity amongst the clients of his age they were more accustomed to serving; others his fine features and thick head of curly hair, unlike those men, equally gentle and generous, who sported bald pates shiny with sweat and distinctly unpleasant countenances. Even bawdier speculation often ensured they would be shut down when Madame overheard. The first rule of the house was that in the public rooms, only the language and manners of a fine lady were expected.

Melbourne greeted each young lady with the same sweet smile he might have shown any Court lady, dispensing mild witticisms and the most cordial of greetings. His brother Frederick Lamb had arrived earlier to check on the dinner arrangements and when he joined Melbourne the two of them presented a startlingly comely pair. _Such beautiful creatures!_ _So kind, so charming! If only…_

He looked around with keener interest than he customarily displayed, or indeed felt. To Melbourne, this house and others like it were no more or less than part of fabric of society for a gentleman of means. But his Victoria, like many sheltered young women, his own sister in her youth included, had great interest in such forbidden knowledge, and he would bring her back as accurate a description as he could manage. Some things, of course, would go unsaid, for there were still things she had no need to know, but the questions she asked he could answer and would.

Each drawing room in the commodious house was decorated in a different lavish style. One, he knew, was informally called the Regent's Drawing Room, a Chinese red and gold splendor with chinoiserie to rival the palace at Brighton. Another was a carefully replication of what one might expect to find at Versailles during the reign of Louis XIV. This chamber revealed no such excess, merely tastefully upholstered sofas and numerous armchairs designed for comfort rather than to impress. If any small signs pointed to the fact they were not in a traditional private home, it was the abundance of seating, clearly in expectation of a good-sized party, and lack of family portraits. In their place, tasteful landscapes hung on the walls. What was clearly intended to be a large bay window was carefully covered by heavy damask draperies, more a nod to passersby than any real need to keep what went on concealed.

No physical contact ever took place in Madame's drawing rooms. They did not call her the Duchess for nothing. _Duchess of Quim_ , the wits had it, but only out of her hearing. If a gentleman had a favorite that girl would be on hand when he arrived, where he was expected to greet her as any caller might. He would be offered cakes and drink, unless a dinner had been arranged, and his chosen companion would entertain him on the pianoforte or sit on a footstool near him while he made polite conversation with Madame and whomever else might be present. If other young ladies paraded through on one pretext or another, it was only to offer variety, to whet an uncertain client's appetite, or the opportunity to select a second companion for ménage à troi.

These females were carefully costumed and coiffed, and above all immaculately clean. Weekly physician's examinations were the rule in all upper-class houses, and if any girl was found to have caught a disease that client would be permanently banned not only from the Grivening house but from all houses of quality and discrimination. Victoria had questioned, with blushes and giggles, whether the females lounged about in negligees or even nothing at all. She had been vaguely disappointed to learn their toilettes were not much different from the her own, lacking only jewels of significant value – paste was the rule, for such as these – and perhaps displayed a trifle more cleavage than even the most daring _haute couture_ evening gown. Neither did these working girls dispense with traditional undergarments – Victoria's next question. Melbourne took great pleasure explaining, and demonstrating, that the painstaking process of removing corsets and stockings and untying petticoat ribbons was part of the anticipatory thrill for most men. Of course, Charlotte Grivening was savvy enough to know that time spent equaled money in her purse and so for that reason too she encouraged as prolonged an encounter as the girls could manage. Under no circumstances did her girls entertain more than one gentleman in the course of an evening.

As much as he had truthfully described the superficial normalcy of such settings, Melbourne had not conveyed the atmosphere therein. No matter how carefully the mistress of the house might paint a veneer of gentility, none could forget the very purpose of such a place, nor put out of mind the pleasures on offer for a price. That, he had decided, the heady atmosphere of erotic anticipation and exceedingly pleasant debauchery, and its effect on all red-blooded men, was more than his innocent, his darling wife needed to know.

When dinner was done and brandy and cigars consumed, it was Fred and not Melbourne himself who tactfully turned his attention to Mr. McLane, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James, representing the United States of America. He had brought with him his secretary, Mr. Washington, and a secondary trade minister. It was this gentleman to whom Melbourne particularly wanted to talk.

All British gentlemen of a certain rank and means understood without explanation how to conduct themselves at a house such as the one they found themselves in. Only an American, Melbourne reflected, miming a cough to conceal the sudden smirk of amusement, would be crude enough to ask bluntly whether they were in a brothel. The senior of them spared only a single chastening glance before rejoining those with whom he conversed, leaving Melbourne to lead the gauche trade minister apart.

The key matter of business on which he sought to make terms, was the purchase and shipment of £10,000 in grain and foodstuffs, to be accomplished through private channels. Whether they knew his relationship to the Queen or not – and Melbourne assumed they did, for even louts such as these could not be entirely ignorant of the country to which they were assigned – he offered and they accepted the polite fiction that he only floated the notion on behalf of some interested but unnamed charitable organization.

The entire discussion lasted only a few short minutes and was downplayed to Melbourne's satisfaction. It should seem of no importance, as it must not be significant that the Queen's own husband initiated the inquiry, and that was accomplished. It seemed, as he'd hoped, that the undersecretary for trade was focused on the commission he could expect to earn – under the table, of course – for bringing such a hefty transaction to the exporters and commodity traders, with the promise of repetition.

Peel's government last, and now John Russell's, were bogged down in the House over the issue of relief to Ireland. The Royal Commission sent to review how things stood on the ground and even the ineffectual Irish Secretary Labouchere agreed that circumstances were dire, and the advent of winter would surely wreak further suffering on the miserable starving peasantry. Yet no one could decide what, or how much, should be done. Peel, before his government stepped down, had initiated a private charitable relief effort, to which Victoria had promptly donated the maximum her ministers permitted. The paltry £2500 sum ensured that no one would with propriety give more than the Queen and dispensing the funds had proved another muddle. While the whole affair reinforced Melbourne's innate belief that each time the government instituted some measure for the ostensible good of its citizens, the thing would end badly. _Leave it alone_ , had long been his motto. Others, with an excess of passion, argued that charity would remove any incentive men had to fend for themselves, while still others insisted that it was incumbent on the Church and not the State itself, to provide charity. In the meantime, people starved, and with the advent of the cold months already upon them, a tragedy of immense, unfathomable proportions loomed.

Seeing the world through his young wife's eyes, the scales had fallen from his own. Melbourne knew himself well enough to accept that any altruistic urges were readily stifled behind a blanket of practicality, and his own youthful idealism had decades to wither and die. But Victoria – ah, Victoria, his Gloriana, his warrior queen, saw herself as the protector of her people, even if that meant protecting them from her own government. She had decided, to Melbourne's great relief, to avoid open confrontation with her ministers and accomplish what she could privately. Importing and distributing basic commodities at her own expense, from her private funds, was the swiftest means to that end.

Ironic, he thought, that a charitable gesture, meant to alleviate the worst suffering, had to be accomplished in secret. _In a brothel, no less, the deal generously lubricated by good Cognac and lust._

"William!" Melbourne looked up at the sound of his own name, spoken in husky dulcet tones. When his eyes met those familiar black ones, he grinned with genuine warmth.

A tall slim figure stood before him, outfitted in skin tight doeskin breeches and blue broadcloth coat. She wore a loosely knotted scarf at her neck and carried a riding crop. _Diane_. Then, she had been an oddly self-assured young woman, still in the garb more traditional to her sex but already more interested in the finery of her fellows than her own. Now, Melbourne saw she entirely effected male attire and appearance, although nothing could disguise a long slender neck, high cheekbones and full pouting mouth.

She bowed smartly and touched a finger to her forehead as though in mocking salute. Melbourne laughed heartily.

"I'd kiss you, my dear, but have no wish to scandalize the company. Although if it's a masquerade, I daresay it's not very effective. You are still a beautiful girl, although in man's clothing."

Melbourne remembered her well, and fondly. Then, she had been full of simmering rage and easily roused humor in equal measure. Against all odds, the prickly girl had grown fond of the Prime Minister, even while she and he both knew her tastes ran in another direction entirely. Even in the grip of his infatuation with the Norton woman, there were things one simply did not do with a lady of quality, a lady with whom one was engaged in an affair of the heart as much as the flesh. This one had taken everything he dished out and came back for more, strutting and crowing, a tough girl, a wicked girl who was damnably good at being bad. Melbourne knew and had known that she paid him great, unlooked-for honor in her grudging affection for him, even while she took no pains to hide her contempt for the rest of the men who begged for her favor. With them, she gave; with him, she took, and displayed loud lusty pleasure in the taking.

"I thought that was you – here a few months ago. I hoped I was wrong." Melbourne looked as nonplussed as he felt, until he understood her meaning. Then he shook his head.

"It was I, although not for the reason you might think. Merely – shopping for a…friend."

The girl – a woman now, still quirky and feisty and redolent of something dangerous – laughed, slapping her thigh for emphasis.

"I didn't think you'd resort to such an excuse. Surely you can come up with something better."

"But it's true," Melbourne insisted mildly. "I am happily married now. A thing neither of us believed was possible, for anyone, far less for me."

"I want to pretend ignorance, William, and ask you whether that harpy sunk her claws into you and dragged you to the altar. But I haven't lived in a cave. Shall I congratulate you on marrying well, then?"

"No." Melbourne smiled into her eyes, wanting her to understand. "I want you to congratulate me for finding love."

Diane made a face, scorning the very concept, but he saw her dark eyes were kind, touched by his declaration. "Then I do, William. And her. You're the best man I've ever met, and I've met a lot of men. None who could lay into me the way you could, and sure as hell none who could put out the fire you set."

"You're on the other side of the cat o' nine tails now? And wearing the pants rather successfully, from what I hear. You could be out of here and on your own somewhere, away from all this."

"Oh, William. Be where? Running a dress shop? Maybe a farm? This is who I am, and I like it. I have my choice of the girls, sweet little pieces, and some of them even develop a taste for what I offer. And I love my job. How many can say that?"

"Well, then, I am happy for you too." Melbourne leaned forward and kissed her cheek before she could recoil. Instead she laughed, and then turned her head and took his lip between her teeth. Holding a hand against the back of his head, she kissed him hard, pushing her tongue into his mouth and flicking it against his own.

"For old times' sake? I'll even bring in my favorite. Sweet little peaches and cream blonde, hair so downy soft you'd think – you can watch or join in as you wish. Or whatever else you have a yen for. I've never let any man besides you get the better of me. But with you I had a taste for it."

"I'm honored and touched, my dear. But I am no longer so young that I cannot resist what is undeniably tempting, and I am quite desperately in love. I wish both for you."

"All right then. Don't say I didn't offer." She winked, boldly. "I'll be off then. I'm sure there will be a naughty boy coming along soon, and if not, I'll be upstairs keeping the peace."

"Naughty boys. Now there's something I don't understand. I preferred naughty girls myself." Melbourne winked. "But as long as you're here, be a love and go tell Charlotte I would like to take another box of those French letters. Discreetly, please."

"I am all discretion, my Lord."

Watching the sway of her hips as she walked away, those flanks and long hard thigh muscles taut under her breeches, Melbourne felt the inevitable response. Any regret at turning her down was transient. It was too late for that, too much time had passed, and what vigor remained was reserved for Victoria. She deserved no less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact Check:  
> It was Peel who privately arranged for £10,000 in grain to be shipped from the US to Ireland in November 1845 at his own expense, secretly circumventing an obstructionist Tory Parliament. There is no evidence Victoria was involved in anyway, nor was her husband. Or that the secret deal was made in a brothel. John Russell would not take office until July 1846 in that alternate timeline known as "reality." There is no evidence the ministers limited Victoria's donation, but her miserly £2500 did prevent others from donating more.


	27. Chapter 27

The many angles of roof line, innumerable windows glowing with light against the darkness, told Melbourne if he had not already known, that Buckingham House lay just ahead. As welcome a sight as it was, promising all the warmth and love of homecoming, a faint twinge of foreboding just brushed against his conscious mind. _What was it_? He mused. _A memory? If it was, then surely from the dark days after Victoria's marriage and before he fully understood how it was to be._ But that didn't seem quite right either. Some dimly recollected image flickered just out of reach – riding through the park just like this, looking up and seeing Victoria, knowing she was preparing to leave for the opera, recognizing each small movement as she passed from room to room, day to day, living her life without him. Watching until the carriage bore him out of sight, gripped by the sharpest, most biting pain of his life.

Shrugging off the peculiar memory-not-memory, Melbourne collected himself and as soon as the coachmen stopped, bounded down with alacrity. He ran lightly up the stairs, pausing only to deposit hat, coat and walking stick in the arms of a waiting footmen.

The wide corridor leading to the family wing, their private apartments, was empty except for a single sentry. Melbourne almost collided with the Duchess of Kent in his haste. She laughed and stopped talking to the woman at her side long enough to greet her daughter's husband. Melbourne smiled down at her and on impulse bent to kiss her cheek. Victoire fluttered, surprised and pleased, and he took her hand in both of his.

He related some minor gossip, knowing she would be delighted at the insider's knowledge he brought with him from town, and listened attentively while she told him the news from her son and older daughter and the grandchildren she saw so rarely. Standing with his mother-in-law cost him another few minutes he would have spent with Victoria, yet he could not begrudge it, seeing the pleasure of the Duchess.

Melbourne had long since advocated on her behalf, that she receive an income sufficient to give her independence and the freedom to travel if she wished, set up a separate household if she desired. Certainly, the Palaces were big enough to accommodate a hundred relations without strain, but he had considered her essential loneliness and thought for her sake she might find some happiness of her own. He had not reckoned on the fact that she had no real ties save those which bound her to Victoria, the children and by extension Melbourne himself. Her brother was a conniving bastard who considered her only as she could help him achieve his own goals, and Victoire herself had so thoroughly submerged her own identity into that of her daughter that to encourage her to go away would be no kindness. Instead Melbourne redoubled his efforts to mend the longstanding breech between Victoria and her mother, and ensure the Duchess be fully integrated into the life of her family and adopted country.

He allowed her to say good night, then as soon as they parted continued on his way. Their apartment was dark, and to his surprise no lady's maid waited for the Queen's return. His own valet was nodding off in Melbourne's armchair, and when he entered the man startled awake, leaping to his feet. Melbourne accepted his services only to tug off the close-fitting, exquisitely tailored coat he wore, and then sent him off to bed as well. Then he finished undressing and pulled on his worn dressing gown, determined to wait for Victoria's return from the opera.

When he ventured into her bedchamber Melbourne saw with surprise that she was already abed and asleep. He glanced at the mantle clock, wondering whether his own return was far later than he thought, but the hands had not yet reached midnight.

Moonlight streaming through tall windows bleached everything of color so that the room was rendered in stark black and white. A trick of the light certainly, but to Melbourne it lent a dreamlike quality to the tableau before him, and not a pleasant dream.

He stood still, rooted to the floor, staring at Victoria. She lay on her back, with her face turned to one side. A hand rested palm up beside her on the pillow and her dark hair was spread out in waves. Her complexion was milky, in stark contrast to the black of her hair, and against the white sheets and a foamy mass of lace from her gown, she appeared to be floating, wraith-like. _Or was he the ghost?_

"What an odd thought," Melbourne said and realized he had spoken aloud only when she stirred.

Victoria opened her eyes, squinting to see him in the dark, and then stretched out a hand.

"You're back," she said thickly, still hoarse from sleep. She slid over, making room, and pulled back the bed covers, tenting them so that he could lay beside her.

"I'm back," Melbourne agreed when he could speak, still struggling to shake off the peculiar dreamlike sensation which held him in its grip. "You sound surprised."

"Pleased." Victoria rolled onto her side and propped herself on one elbow. "Did you have a pleasant evening, Lord M?"

He laughed then, finding himself once more. Centering himself on the solidity of her presence, the warm solid girl beside him.

"Yes, madam. And you? Did you enjoy the opera?"

"Not as much as I thought I would. I like it much more when you are sleeping beside me or annoying me with your comments."

"I would have thought it more pleasurable, to be in the company of others who appreciate opera as I do not."

"You would have been wrong. Will you tell me about your evening? Tell me _everything._ "

Melbourne sketched quickly the outline of the agreement he had made, to import grain from the Americas, delivered and distributed outside government channels to those most in need. _It won't be enough_ , she worried. _It never is,_ he responded. _But you are doing what you can_.

To erase the frown of concern from her brow he described to her the house, its furnishings and inhabitants, painting a picture with his words that glossed over the more prurient aspects. Victoria listened avidly, her gaze turned inward so he knew she was seeing it all in her mind. He did not tell her about the brief encounter with an old acquaintance; it held no importance and there was no need to disturb her peace of mind.

The night Cameron had said goodbye Victoria had crawled into Melbourne's arms and immediately confessed her transgression. _He had kissed her, and she had allowed it._ No, she had not been affected, only touched at his perverse half-declaration. Melbourne had not been surprised. Billy had asked him for permission to tell Victoria he was leaving and had no need to add _alone_. His meaning was clear. Nor was there any need to remind the man that there were boundaries which must not be crossed.

Cameron accepted that Victoria was Melbourne's, heart, mind, body and soul. When Melbourne nodded his consent, he held the younger man's gaze, making certain they understood each other, and was satisfied with what he found there.

To Victoria's confession he only inclined his head, murmuring _I see_ , wanting to give neither reassurance nor its opposite. He must not appear to _condone_ , nor to hold her too lightly to account, lest she think he did not value her as he should.

"I know, sweetheart. And I also know it means nothing to us, else I would not have allowed it. But to him it meant a great deal. He has been a good friend to us both. Now put it out of your mind."

He returned to the subject only once, later that same night, as the sky lightened in the east and she lay wrapped in his arms.

"And did you enjoy it? Billy's kiss?" Melbourne's voice was light and teasing, but Victoria shook her head so vigorously her hair whipped about.

"Oh no," she had protested, far too strongly for the simple question, and he suspected the contrary was true. Then, for the first time, he felt a twinge of jealousy. He pushed it away, grateful for the tranquility experience brings. Victoria was her own person, no matter how deeply he loved and even needed her, and it was only right she explore such a simple thing in the privacy of her own mind. She was good and true and loved him with blinding intensity and single-minded devotion. Such loyalty was to be honored, not commanded. He would not steal from her the simple vanity-pleasing awareness that another man might desire her.

Melbourne's brief encounter with his own past held less meaning than Victoria's with the man who might be her future. He knew she would not accept it with equanimity so only described to her the woman in man's clothing, who lived as a man in a house of women and was rewarded with Victoria's piquant amazement at such a thing. Delicately she broached the subject of how one woman might love another, and he reminded her of what she already knew, that there were many ways to find physical pleasure beyond that one sublime act. Melbourne felt both touched and uniquely privileged that it was he who provided glimpses of the world beyond palace walls, that she could explore from the security of his encircling arms.

They talked until Victoria's eyes grew heavy and his voice thick with drowsiness. She slept first, huffing baby soft sighs with her face pressed against his chest. When he drifted off it was to the comfort of her warm soft body pressed against his.

_He directed his coachman to drive through the Park, so he could pass Buckingham House. He took this route often, each time he was in London, and sometimes was rewarded by glimpsing her through the windows. Once, she had been leaving for some entertainment just as he passed; other times, indistinct figures seen at a distance moved about in rooms he knew so well, and he imagined it was her, although it might have been anyone._

_It was tortuous to glimpse this life he had no part of, and for weeks afterward he would be sunk in the deepest gloom, and yet he could not refrain. She was light and life and all that was good in the world and if he could not see her, even at a distance and from outside the gates, he would surely die._

_Once they nearly met, at some Court entertainment to which he had been invited, one of hundreds. There was a long line and he took his place at the end of it, hoping against hope he might for a moment exchange words, kiss her hand, look into those big blue eyes. In the end she had been called away before she reached him and in an old man's foolish despair he had fled. She had written then, and he had responded, begging her leave for not remaining to greet her, claiming ill health and not an old man's megrims which called him away._

_Always, always, it was dark in this world, even at midday. A bleak dank dreariness pervaded each familiar scene, and he was never warm enough, there was never enough light by which to see. It was a glimpse into hell, surely, and yet everything was familiar, and it called to him, tugging at his consciousness, beckoning him back to his rightful place._

_That can't be right,_ he thought. _That is not my home, my world, my rightful place. It is here, beside the woman I love, who loves me, who lies with me and bears my children._

He was consumed by the need to banish the grim visions, these night terrors which had haunted him for so long. To do that, he thought logically, he must understand what they were, from whence they originated – _some flaw in the brain, some religious mania, a hallucination or merely another manifestation of the episodic depression to which he refused to yield?_ Step forward then, go into the dreamworld and see where it leads. Wrest control of the thing and it will dissipate like smoke, like mist at dawn. _There were so many familiar faces – Em, Henry, Fanny, even Caroline Norton, waspish, sharp-tongued and seductive. Step forward into their presence, these dream-figures, and demand answers._

It was a tempting notion, to diminish the potency of the terror by confronting it with logic. Something held him back, some warning, some –

"William!" Melbourne's eyes flew open and his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure she would hear it. Victoria leaned over him, propped on an elbow, and her eyes were wide with concern.

"You were dreaming. Are you all right?"

"Victoria –" he cleared his throat and began again. "I'm fine, my love. I'm sorry I disturbed you." He pushed himself up, bunching the pillows behind his back, and lifted his arm in their old familiar signal that she should come to him for reassurance.

"You frightened me. Are you sure you are all right?" Victoria refused to be comforted, all her attention on him.

"I am fine, my love. A bad dream, I suppose. Probably too rich a sauce at dinner, or that cognac – I have no stomach for the stuff."

Victoria's expression gradually relaxed and she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest once more. He stroked her hair until she fell back asleep, and continued toying with the silky soft strands until the sun rose in the eastern sky. Melbourne would sleep no more that night.


	28. Chapter 28

 

When Victoria awakened at eight bright sun was streaming in the windows. It was the day of the most significant social event of the season, the Diplomatic Ball.

She called out to her dresser, asking that faithful servant to have coffee and toasted bread brought up, and then turned over to look at her husband. He was watching her, sleepy hooded eyes fixed on her with an expression so soft and full of love she could not bear it.

"My darling, you did not sleep again." Victoria stroked his cheek tenderly.

"I would far rather spend those precious hours watching over you," he answered, the achingly familiar raspy voice muffled by her mouth hovering over his. He cupped her head in both hands and nibbled softly on her lip, then kissed eyelids, cheek and chin, light butterfly kisses, before he took her mouth with his own.

When he released her, Victoria sighed and sat up. She knew her own expression showed her concern and relaxed her features into a semblance of composure.

They rose together, Melbourne donning his worn paisley dressing gown in deference to the servants who would soon occupy the Queen's chamber to bathe and dress her for the day ahead. He padded in soft leather slippers to his own small sitting room, and it was there a footman brought the light repast Victoria had ordered. She watched him walk away thoughtfully.

**

Melbourne knew he should bestir himself, summon his own valet, to order hot water and a bath. He rubbed the graying bristle on his chin ruefully, ran a hand over what he supposed was atrociously mussed hair. When Victoria had rejoined him, Melbourne feasted his eyes on her fresh prettiness, the heart-shaped face, eager eyes and trim figure under a simple spring green gown. And energy! She veritably radiated energy and vigor.

Utterly guileless and honest to a fault, whatever Victoria felt could be seen on her face. On public occasions those lovely features were schooled into an expression of serene detachment, but even then, she was quick to display humor, compassion and frequently, annoyance. Melbourne thought he had never beheld such a charmingly expressive face – nor one he loved more dearly.

She had perched on the edge of the footstool in front of his chair and took for herself a cup of coffee liberally sweetened and lightened to disguise the bitter taste. Melbourne had laughed at the resulting grimace and suggested calling for the hot chocolate she preferred.

"No _,"_ she had said. "I see the Foreign Minister at ten. He brings the list of ambassadors and ministers we will receive tonight. He will leave his secretary with me the day, to help me prepare."

"'The Foreign Minister,'" Melbourne had repeated with a small smile. "You refer to our irrepressible brother-in-law with such formality?"

"Henry, then. Although when he persists in acting on his own without consulting me, I find it more comfortable to separate family feeling from my displeasure with our minister."

Melbourne only nodded, making note to have a word with Emily. She had more influence over her husband than either Prime Minister or monarch.

"Are you well, darling? Should I call Baines for you or do you wish to return to bed?" He had looked into the beloved blue eyes, dark with concern, and forced a sheepish grin.

"Quite well, my love. What you behold is sloth only. I seldom rose before two or three in past years, and often received visitors in my dressing gown. Alas, old habits sometimes overtake Court protocol."

Victoria had affectionately combed through his curls with her fingers and kissed the top of his head before leaving him with a swish of her skirts, leaving only the scent of jonquils in her wake.

 _Five-and-twenty_ , Melbourne thought. In that dreamworld she was the same, he knew, with the unexplained certainty of dreams. In that place, in that world, still a young woman, she was not his radiant Queen. Instead, even at a distance, she appeared stern and humorless, almost beaten down by the weight of -what? responsibility? unhappiness? the interminable pregnancies which had produced three, four, five children in as many years? Leeched of all color, as was everything in that gray place of shadows. However he knew that, he accepted it as fact. Victoria but not Victoria, just as there, Albert was not quite the Albert he had known. Why was he shown a world so like this, yet different in so many subtle ways? What the devil did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? Worse, could it be the onset of some kind of dementia? Caro had suffered from mental instability and the mind of his son had never been right.

But that explanation did not feel right either. Although he had long been interested in religion as a subject of philosophical study, Melbourne held no firm spiritual beliefs. Yet he had long ago decided that a construct as complex as the known universe could not exist at random, without some intelligent design. Were the dreams a message from Beyond, wherever that might lie? The fanciful nature of that thought made him squirm with discomfort. Surely if some Being whose very existence Melbourne doubted spared a moment to communicate with the least of His disbelieving creatures, then surely, He – or She - would be less cryptic, more certain to be clearly understood.

Examined with the stark mathematical equation of logic, either the dreams began and ended in his own mind, or the things they showed him existed externally in some dimension. _How to know? And why?_

The _why_ was far easier to answer: Because if his own mind was turning traitor, manifesting some long-buried tendency toward late-advent madness, then there were things he must do, plans he must make and execute while he still could. And if they came from without, in some manner which defied understanding, then he was being shown them for a purpose and that purpose must be deduced from the few available clues. They had tormented him for nearly three years, and perhaps even longer, too persistent and consistent to be coincidence, mere happenstance. They contained none of the fantastical beyond their very existence, no dragons or flying machines, no demons or succubi, merely this world…but distorted.

When Victoria returned, he was still in his armchair, still unshaven, still in his old paisley robe. She was followed by footmen trundling a cart laden with covered dishes and a bottle of wine. Their luncheon was laid out on his writing table and the cart pushed away once more, by servants who bowed obsequiously as they backed out of the room.

"Eat with me, my love," Victoria said, as she set about fixing a plate and struggling to uncork the wine. Melbourne might have protested that he had no appetite, but the consommé and cold roast chicken breast set before him tempted, and Victoria insisted he eat.

She took her own plate and sat on the sofa, drawing her legs up under her backside and spreading out. While they ate, they spoke – of the feverish preparations underway in the wing holding the State rooms, of her ladies all abuzz, having new gowns pinned, lace adjusted, and jewels polished. Half of them in curl papers, in plain view, Victoria said laughing. She customarily wore her own dark hair in a simple sleek style, Melbourne only occasionally successful in encouraging her to let it fall loose in the fashion of his own youth. _At least_ , he reflected, _she abandoned those unfortunate looped braids._

"Have you had your final fitting?" Victoria asked, with wifely suspicion. It never failed to amuse him when she adopted the manner of a spouse, patronizing and slightly maternal.

"Yes, ma'am, I have. And I have no doubt Baines will have a whole squadron of tailors waiting to make any final adjustments on my costume."

"I am pleased you had a new jacket made. No man looks finer in the Court uniform," Victoria proclaimed, eyes sparkling. How much he loathed the heavily braided jacket resplendent in gold buttons was subject to dispute. Victoria doubted he could fail to take pride in how well it set off his good looks to advantage.

"But you look exceedingly well in anything, Lord M. All mine. Remember that when the ladies preen for you. _Mine_."

She recited from memory the names and stations of the ministers who would present their portfolios. No one knew better than Melbourne how diligently Victoria worked at the mechanics of her role, making exhaustive notes and insisting he quiz her at night on those things she must have committed to memory. It would never have occurred to her male predecessors to study as though for examination.

"Victoria…" he began when conversation briefly lagged. _How to begin without making it seem more than it is?_  

"Have you ever wondered how else your life might have gone? If – if we had not been together and your marriage to Albert had taken its expected course?"

"Expected by _whom?_ " she asked sharply. "By Uncle Leopold? Without considering the wishes of either Albert or me? No, I have not because it's unthinkable." Her tone indicated the matter was closed in her own mind, but Melbourne persisted.

"Yes, but…just for the sake of wondering…if things had gone differently, what do you think it would be like? What would _you_ be like? And Albert? Would he still have died so very young? Or would he have not gone to that place, at that time, for that reason?"

He saw the cloud pass over her features and quick tears well up in her eyes. "Sweetheart, I don't want to distress you. I suppose I wonder philosophically, how much freedom of will we have and how much is predestined?"

Her very transparency permitted him to see what she was thinking. Victoria had a practical mind uninterested in abstract considerations, and to contemplate matters beyond what _was_ did not come easily.

"I can't imagine how or why such a thing could have been unless you had been steadfast in your refusal to have me. And even then – Albert and I had our agreement in place, before the ceremony, that I would support his right to be… _who_ he was, _what_ he was and he would not attempt to engage in marital relations. But _if_ all that not happened, if for whatever unknown reason I had agreed to marry in fact and Albert had been forced to agree…" her voice trailed off as she allowed her thoughts to range in such alien, unconsidered territory.

"Albert would not have been true to himself, not content. And it would have been a great strain for me, always trying and failing to please him. And I could not, no woman could because he did not want a woman. I would have felt inadequate, I suppose. Never good enough. But would that change who we are? Who we became?" Victoria stared intently into the distance, her brows furrowed as she parsed with great difficulty the complex considerations.

"What forms a person? Is personality static and unchanging from birth, or is it shaped by what happens to us?" As she always did, Victoria looked to him for guidance. Melbourne, as much fascinated by the workings of her mind as by the topic itself, gently reflected her own question back at her.

"What do you think, ma'am? How much did your childhood affect who you became as an adult? And more germane, how much have you been shaped by what happened since? Your marriage, us, the children – our children and –" he stuttered, nearly unable to continue. " – or any children Albert might have put on you? Would having more children, or none, make you into a different version of yourself?"

Victoria fell easily into the rhythm of their discussion, more comfortable now that it took the familiar form of those talks they had in the past, when he had first begun teaching her the mechanics of government and all she needed to learn about the world she ruled. Under his tutelage, unlike that of the excellent instructors who had schooled her at Kensington, Victoria had learned to think critically, to develop her own ability to evaluate opposing arguments and form evidence-based conclusions.

"Albert would have – remember how he was when he first came to Court with the intention of becoming my husband? Not _his_ intention, but the scheming of others? Stiff, unpleasant, constantly finding fault and not able to be happy or even tolerably entertained? Nit-picking everything? Remember how angry he was with me when I behaved in some way of which he did not approve? My giddiness, my frivolity. He would have continued to be that sour, miserable person, only _worse_ , because he would have had no other outlet. And because he treated me as though I was stupid, incapable of understanding my own people, my own responsibility…I would have _become_ stupid. He would not have encouraged me to learn and grow. I think then he might have wanted to become King in fact if not in name."

Melbourne listened closely. The Albert they first met was a thoroughly unpleasant and unhappy boy. After marriage freed him to be who he was without fear of censure, to bring his own companions into his household and go his own way, he had unbent and smiled, even laughed sometimes. When he trusted that no one who knew the truth – Victoria and Melbourne, his own gentlemen companions and a select few others – thought ill of him or considered him less of a man, the truculent boy had gradually become a pleasant, if overly serious and careful, young man. Albert and Victoria had grown fond of each other and Melbourne recalled how they had bickered and teased like siblings, how quick Albert had been to come to her defense.

"Children…" Victoria continued. "Yes, of course there would have been children. That was Uncle Leopold's primary intention. And he would not rest until Albert put as many children on me as he could manage. If he was still forced to hide his truth he would have done his duty and impregnated me as often as he could, to prove to the world and especially to my uncles that he was capable." She made a moue of distaste. "And, perhaps, to make up for what he had lost as a child, the happy family he imagined. But we gave him that. He was happy, wasn't he?"

Melbourne reassured her and meant it sincerely, recalling how easily Albert had settled into the role of favorite uncle to his own titular son, teaching the boy to appreciate those mechanical contraptions, bringing him the first miniature train. They had created a family, all of them, even larger when expanded to embrace those other effeminate young men who held appointments in the Prince's household. Families came in all different configurations, Melbourne knew from his own childhood, Mother and his siblings at Melbourne House and the happy days he spent at the Wyndham estate, then later the home he and Caro gave Susan, reared along side  their own troubled son.

"It would have been quite horrid of course, having him as repulsed by my form as I was by his character. Even if I had never known you – and I can't bear that thought, darling – Albert would not have pleased me. Ernst, perhaps, or – oh, I don't know, I suppose there might have been others who were not so off-putting, but it was as though I sensed that Albert did not like women."

"How would that have changed you, my love? If you had not discovered that side of life, if you did not have a man who worshipped the beautiful body under those State robes? And if you had to produce one child after another, for Albert to dispel his father's suspicion he was a Sodomite?"

Victoria shuddered, and swiftly moved from sofa to chair, sitting on Melbourne's lap and putting an arm about his neck.

"If I didn't know any better I might think I was happy, would certainly tell myself I was, else how could I bear the…sterility of it all, the lack of joy and spontaneity?" Victoria sighed, and her warm breath against his ear made a shiver go up Melbourne's spine.

"Albert at his best was not very merry. His gentlemen companions were much more fun than he, and even they would be rebuked if they grew too very gay. He had no patience with frivolity at all, and that in a life which had freed him to live exactly as he wanted. I cannot bear to think how he would have been if he had not had George to chide him out of the doldrums, and share with him the pleasures of the bedchamber. Oh, he would have been so very unhappy and because of that I think he might have even been capable of cruelty. Certainly, he would have despised me for everything I am."

"I would not feel pretty, and womanly and desired. Oh, I know I'm not beautiful, compared to many of the ladies at court but –" she stopped talking when Melbourne's palm went over her mouth.

"You _are_ beautiful, ma'am, and not only to me." He spoke firmly, with conviction, and she drank in the ring of sincerity. "Your eyes are magnificent, and that perfect little face is captivating. Those lips just right for kissing make men hard in contemplation."

Victoria looked both hopeful and unconvinced, and the juxtaposition made her even more adorable. Melbourne took her face in his hands and kissed it, then slid a hand down the front of her gown to cup a breast, running the edge of his thumb over her nipple until it hardened.

"One more question…and it goes to the nature of choices, and how one single choice can manifest in a thousand different ways we never imagine…in that life, who benefits? Who is happier than they are now? I don't ask so that you may speak the answer you think I want to hear. I am genuinely curious. Are you happier? Albert? Might it alter affairs of state in some way for the better? Leopold, Ernst, your mother, _anyone_? Would Albert have died as young as he did, or lived to a ripe old age? And would that long life have made him any happier, any more filled with joy and purpose, than this one?" Melbourne no longer knew whether he sought answers or merely reassurance. It seemed important to solve at least that piece of the puzzle.

They were interrupted by the entry of the very patient, long-suffering valet who had served Lord Melbourne with dedication for more than twenty years.

"Your Majesty," that gentleman said in a low voice, bowing formally before the young woman cradled on his master's lap. Victoria, unabashed, merely nodded her recognition of his greeting. "Sir, your bath is being prepared and your new coat awaits a final fitting. The tailor and his helpers have been sent to wait in the Tradesmen's Hall, but he complains you are not the only gentleman on whom he must wait this day." Baines' dry tone and flat delivery conveyed both derision of a mere tailor's audacity and impatience with his noble master.

"Very well, Baines. I am moving. See? Now leave us and see to the bath. Call me when it's ready and I will promptly obey." Victoria rose and smoothed her skirts, then laid a soft hand on her husband's shoulder.

"I will see you soon, my Lord," she whispered.

**

Left to himself, Melbourne pondered what Victoria said, thinking it a fairly accurate summation of how all their lives might have followed a different course to a different outcome. Possible, not certain, but it was enough to consider further. He put the matter in the back of his mind and determined to give it no more thought, for now.

Melbourne walked through the sitting room and his seldom-used bedchamber to his dressing room, where the large copper tub sat. He dispensed with dressing gown and night shirt and lowered himself into the steaming water, stretching his legs out full length to soak up as much of the invigorating heat as he could manage.

He had drifted off, nearly asleep, when he was disturbed by some movement. Victoria entered, the same apron and towel tied over her gown as when she was about to bathe one of the dogs. He watched drowsily as she took sponge and a fresh bar of sandalwood-scented soap, then knelt beside the tub and reached into the water.

Victoria shampooed his hair first, massaging his scalp until he thought he might purr with pleasure. Then she worked up a great froth of lather and began soaping his shoulders, his chest covered by a thatch of still-dark hair, arms, legs, even his feet before working her way up once more. When her hand found him beneath the water he was already half-hard, and her hand plied him, gliding back and forth with movement facilitated by the lather. She did not neglect the heavy sac beneath, cradling its weight with her other hand, palpitating gently until he groaned aloud from the exquisite sensation. He gave himself into her hands, feeling like a pasha in some Eastern harem. Victoria knew his responses so well, she intuited the precise amount of pressure to apply, and the pacing of her ministrations so that when the anticipation had become unbearable she would slow, until finally he begged for release.

Afterward, Victoria continued to hold him tenderly until he had diminished, then bent her head so that he could kiss her his thanks.

"Lord Melbourne, you will lead me in and open the ball with me tonight?"

"Am I not outranked by – someone?" Melbourne gave the matter little thought, accepting whatever royal protocol dictated. He would close the ball with her, the final waltz of the evening, and then have the right to walk away at her side and that was all that mattered.

"William! You will get my gown wet!" Victoria shrieked a little and jumped back when he stood suddenly, sending bathwater splashing over the sides of the tub.  He laughed and grabbed for her, pressing her against his length.

"I will get your gown wet, Mrs. Melbourne," he agreed, unwilling to release her quite yet.


	29. Chapter 29

Victoria had wanted to remain with her husband, to stroke his hair as he so often did hers and watch over him as he got some much-needed sleep. But the call of duty was relentless.

The names and ranks of every one of the foreign envoys who would assemble in a few short hours, as well as some detail attached to each by resourceful clerks, were committed to memory. She was accompanied by an equerry, Lord Stafford's youngest son, who flipped through a stack of note cards, quizzing her by calling out some fact and waiting for her to attach the correct name.

The remaining hours passed quickly, too quickly it seemed. She moved from one room to the next, checking on the minutiae such a large ceremonial occasion engendered, answering questions put to her with a crisp efficiency that owed a debt of thanks to the good example of Baroness Lehzen, while those ladies-in-waiting who occupied the more influential positions within her household bustled about ensuring the Queen's wishes were carried out.

Victoria knew that her oversight was nominal at best. She had given over the planning to those better qualified than she, the Lord Chamberlain and his underlings bearing overall responsibility and her own chief ladies conveying her wishes. Even while she rendered final tie-breaking verdict on matters as diverse as the order of procession and placement of the twin floral arbors flanking her own dais, Victoria's mind returned to her conversation with Lord Melbourne. She recognized her own inability to follow his more esoteric arguments when Lord M began discoursing on philosophy, but her own infatuation with the workings of that most fascinating of minds had long made her determined to apply the same rigorous study there as she did to any academic subject.

 _Another life?_ The very concept, to her, signified regret, but she knew that was not the root of his musings. The Church teachings on afterlife, Heaven and Hell and what the papists called Purgatory, were unclear but so far as Victoria recollected, these bore no resemblance to the activities one engaged in on Earth. Lord M's interest was the only thing which piqued her own; if not for that she would have dismissed it all as incomprehensible. His final question stuck most firmly in her mind: what eventualities might come to pass, seemingly disconnected from any cardinal decision? The matter of her marriage had, of course, dynastic implications and the solution she had devised was flawed, certainly, but even that had not been imposed by any external forces, only Lord M's misguided chivalric notion that he must refuse her. Thankfully it had all turned out well in the end; even poor Albert's passing had been instigated only by his own actions, whatever the motivation. They would have been content, the three of them – William even more than she – with their cozy arrangement indefinitely, had circumstances not intervened.

But what else might have been affected, far beyond the personal realm? Victoria followed that thought with difficulty. How could one ever know, she wondered, what far-removed events were impacted in entirely unpredictable ways? Even, what would happen in twenty, fifty, a hundred years in one hypothetical future that would not happen, or happen differently, in another? The myriad possibilities were dizzying and frustrating to contemplate and so she dismissed them with a mental shrug. All that mattered was this life, her life with William Lamb, the union which could never not be.

When it was time, Victoria gave herself into the hands of her dressers. She was bathed and shampooed expeditiously, her long hair toweled and brushed near dry and then she endured the torment of having hot curling irons applied under the combined gaze of her two children, her attendants and a bevy of lady's maids, each with a function to perform.

While she still sat confined and immobile, Lord M came in. Victoria knew it by the sudden frisson of mingled pleasure and nervousness which made every one of them giddy and slightly flirtatious, from the least of the dresser's apprentices to her most stately ladies-in-waiting. Only the chief of these, Lady Portman, was immune, or nearly so. Victoria knew that under her acerbic exterior that woman was as susceptible as the rest to his charm.

Victoria waited patiently, turning her head on command, for her husband to make his way to her side. He was unfailingly kind and attentive, spending the few moments it took to pay some small compliment to one, inquire after the husband or son of another, gratify this one with a bow and that with courtly hand-kissing, and yet when his gaze rested on his wife Victoria saw the collective envy of all those present. He was _hers_ , and that thought never failed to elicit some small jubilant celebration in Victoria's heart.

Melbourne was resplendent in his newly tailored court uniform. Thick with gold braid, epaulets accentuating the width of his shoulders and the hem showing off his narrow waist and trim physique, no one wore it to greater advantage than Lord Melbourne. The long tails of the formal coat extended over white cashmere knee breeches, and white silk stockings displayed fine calves. Few men of any age looked as fine in the traditional breeches as her own husband, Victoria thought with pride.

"May I?" Melbourne asked in his most courteous voice, showing the hair dresser his most beguiling expression. That woman lifted her implement from the long tendril she had been curling to lay on Victoria's shoulder and stepped back so that the Queen's husband might draw near. He bent over Victoria, bringing his lips to her ear and whispered something only she heard.

Victoria dimpled, then laughed softly and raised a hand to caress his smooth, closely-shaven cheek.

"Beautiful, my lord," she whispered.

"Yes, you are, ma'am," he retorted, and his eyes were warm as they always were when they fell on her.

"William, please. You interfere with preparations and we are on a strict timetable here." Victoria's chief lady-in-waiting took advantage of her long familiarity to chastise Lord Melbourne, who obediently stepped back.

When her hair was complete, arranged so that from a knot of loose curls on the back of her head, long curled spirals lay across her shoulders, yet another attendant stepped forward. This one carefully set in place the gold filigreed tiara she had chosen, over a hundred diamonds set into worked gold which would complement the necklace and earrings she had chosen to wear.

Sounds from the outer chamber heralded the arrival of her gown, wrapped in white muslin and borne in by a pair of footmen directed by the French _modiste_. That lady was accompanied by her own attendants bearing the cases containing all the tools of her trade necessary to made last minute adjustments and any repairs which might be needed throughout the evening.

The dressing room was too small to permit the ballgown to be fitted so Victoria's dresser shooed everyone out. When they were alone Victoria went to her husband and lifted his hand to her lips.

"I will see you soon, Lord M. You must not see me until I make my entrance."

"I thought that was a tradition reserved for weddings, ma'am. Am I mistaken?"

"You are, in this case," she said, smiling up at him. "I do not want you to see me getting ready. I want to impress you with the result."

Victoria's gown was stunning in its originality and sheer opulence. Yards of chocolate-colored velvet heavily adorned with gold thread worked into a pattern meant to depict autumn leaves, colored gemstones cleverly worked into the design, gold net and ells of satin underskirt so that the whole effect was of a sparkling, shimmering woodland. Atop the wide bell-shaped skirts, the bodice was simple and close-fitting, baring both shoulders and displaying a daring plunge of cleavage.

Commanded to walk forward, turn, walk back once more so she could assess the effect, the spiderlike little Frenchwoman gasped deliriously at the perfection of her own creation. Despite the many petticoats, there was nothing stiff about Victoria's costume, and her skirts swayed voluptuously with her movement.

Only when every last twitch and tweak and minute adjustment had been made, was Victoria freed to approach the triple pier-glass. She examined her own reflection critically from every angle and could find no flaw. Through some trick of the designer's vision, she appeared taller despite the width of her skirts, an impression heightened by the lift of the curls piled at the back of her head. Victoria thought her coloring appeared quite satisfactorily heightened too, skin smooth and creamy, lips reddened with just a hint of rouge and her own dark lashes casting pleasantly mysterious shadows against her cheeks.

"Shall we?" she said to her ladies, inclining her head towards the doorway which would take them by discreet private passage to the State rooms. Eager to join her husband and ascertain his reaction, Victoria made for the door and a page leaped forward to open it before a royal hand could attempt the task.

As was customary on great State occasions, the royal family assembled beforehand in the Yellow Drawing Room. Supper would not be served until midnight, so a light repast had been laid out. Already present were Victoria's mother and cousins, the Duke of Cambridge and the Duchess of Gloucester and Prince Edward of Saxe Weimar, as well as Emily and Henry, Fred and Adine, and several of Emily's grown children, Lord Melbourne's nieces and nephews. It pleased Victoria greatly to witness her family and William's together, yet another vindication of her decision to marry for love.

Fanny was playing a light melody on the pianoforte set against one wall and while the others congregated in small groups the Queen and her party saw Lord Melbourne dancing with his daughter in his arms. Victoria stopped, charmed by the sight, her heart contracting painfully with love for this absurd, whimsical, quite wonderful man who thought nothing of waltzing with a three-year-old in the company of the descendants of kings. She could not help but notice that beside her, Lady Portman's unguarded expression mirrored her own, and his own sister Emily likewise seemed spellbound by the picture they made.

When Fanny noticed the Queen's entrance her fingers stopped moving over the ivory keys and she stood at once, sweeping a curtsy. Her brothers and their wives did likewise, their greater formality all that set them apart from Victoria's royal cousins. Victoria knew she should go forward and greet her family, kiss Mama and properly acknowledge the others. Instead she remained where she was, content to wait until William came to her.

As soon as the Princess Royale caught sight of her mother she demanded to be put down and Melbourne somewhat sheepishly set the little girl on her feet. Only Lady Portman's ready reflexes intercepted those little hands eager to grasp the many emeralds and rubies winking from the Queen's splendid gown, and Lily's loud protest was unsurprising.

Victoria permitted the children to examine her costume to their satisfaction and then turned to her husband.

"Well? Your opinion, sir? Will it do?"

"Yes, ma'am, it will do. And if I put an eye out doing so, I will kiss my wife before she must become Queen and belong to her public."

True to his word Melbourne bent and carefully pressed his lips against Victoria's cheek. The admiration plainly displayed on his handsome face was the reassurance she sought.

"I will always belong to you first, William," she said softly, knowing her own expression spoke of the adoration which had only grown stronger over the years she had known him.

"And you will lead me in tonight," she stated firmly. The orders of precedence were hers to set, and although there were some expectations in place they were not inviolable. Her cousin George, Duke of Cambridge, grandson of a king, could reasonably expect to take precedence over a mere second Viscount, but he had resigned himself to leading in his own sister behind the Queen and her husband. Prince Edward was informed by the Master of Ceremonies that he would escort the Dowager Duchess of Kent, and the others sorted out according to rank and station. At a signal the others – Cowpers, Temples and Lambs and the ladies of the Queen's household – filed out to find a place in the first row of guests, and Victoria laid her gloved fingers on her husband's arm.

The Lord Chamberlain, the chief steward and the vice chamberlain escorted the Queen and Lord Melbourne down the avenue formed by the assembled company, nearly five hundred assembled members of the diplomatic corps. Gentlemen bowed deeply, and ladies curtsied as they processed to the end of the ballroom. Long accustomed to State ceremonies, Victoria acknowledged the obeisance by inclining her head, her usually expressive features composed in a pleasant, remote mask.

She knew Lord M, after so many years in public office no stranger to Court, still found his own public role as husband to a Queen regnant both ambiguous and awkward. His usual gregariousness stilled, he would withdraw in plain sight, and in a reversal of their usual practice, it was she who sought to reassure him. It was, as he put it, a damned awkward position he was in but for love of her, he made the best of it.

No one knew better than Victoria the magnitude of his sacrifice, to go from the office of Prime Minister, the most powerful man in the country, perhaps the world, to consort – although he declined the formal designation – and if there was one recurring disagreement between them, it was Melbourne's refusal to accept one of the discretionary titles it was within her power to grant.

Victoria and Melbourne went to a recessed dais where they were joined by the rest of the royal family. At her command the orchestra began playing and, relieved of her train, Victoria took the floor with her cousin George to open the ball.

Melbourne preferred to watch rather than dance. He had given up dancing even before the stroke which had left some residual lameness in his left leg, claiming he considered dancing an activity best suited to younger people. Victoria would dispute any characterization of him as old and never failed to beg him to dance with her, so she knew he would waltz with her once or twice during the evening and of course close the ball later with her in his arms.

Victoria danced a quadrille with the Duke of Cambridge and a polka with the Prince before joining her husband once more, prettily flushed with exhilaration and taking an iced champagne from the tray held by a footman even before seating herself.

Melbourne amused her with _on dits_ brought back from the London clubs, amusing _petit scandals_ , some current and some recalled from his vast acquaintance with nearly every member of the English aristocracy.

When the first waltz of the evening formed Victoria looked hopefully to Melbourne and he took her onto the floor, laying his hand at her waist and raising the other. She looked up at him, remembering and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Melbourne looked down at her, surprised and concerned.

"I am only so very happy, Lord M, and so proud that I can dance with you whenever I wish. _As your wife_. There was a time once when I could only dream of such a thing." Victoria spoke with great sincerity, for she could not dissemble to him and had never developed the art of polite flirtation.

"Me, ma'am?" He responded, and she heard a note of disbelief in his tone. "Why?"

Victoria paused, uncertain whether he teased her with the question.

"'Why?' How can you ask? You were the Prime Minister, the most handsome, most charming man in the country and every woman desired you. I was only a girl, inexperienced, shy, quite gauche in social settings, with no notion how to go on. I had rarely been to court, had not been brought out into society, knew no gentlemen outside of my family. Why would I imagine you could ever – ever see me as someone – " Victoria stuttered and stopped speaking. She sighed and shook her head, forcing a smile.

"Never mind. I sound foolish, I know. But no one, least of all I, could believe that someone like _you_ could ever think of me that way. But you did, in the end, so all is well. For that I am grateful."

"'In the end'? Victoria, if anyone knew the way I thought of you at the _beginning_ I would have been sent straight to the Tower." Content with the lighter tone their talk had taken and inordinately pleased with her husband's willingness to salve her natural insecurity, Victoria gave herself over to enjoyment of the music and the movement and the feeling of this man she adored holding her in his arms quite publicly, sweeping her about the ballroom as if in some glorious victory dance.

Dancing continued until midnight. Lord Melbourne went about, speaking to those foreign ministers Lord Palmerston presented to him, greeting old friends and establishing promising new acquaintanceships. Even in the crush, Victoria remained aware of him as she always did, as attuned as they were to one another. She danced another polka and then returned to the dais once more, inviting her mother to join her. At midnight an elegant supper was served in the dining room and it was well after two when she and Lord Melbourne retired from the assembly.

Victoria's feet ached and her head hurt and she wished heartily that her toilette could be disassembled by some magical intervention. Instead it took many hands to set aside her tiara, painstakingly unpin the deceptively simple arrangement of loose curls and remove jewels and the fabulous gown. Finally alone with only her favorite maid, she washed her face with hot rosewater and raised her arms for a fresh night dress to be lowered over her head.

Victoria knew how fatigued her husband must be, with his disturbed rest of the past night, and was immeasurably pleased that he was still awake when the door finally closed behind the last of the servants, leaving them alone. Melbourne reclined against stacked pillows, his eyes heavy, but he lifted his arm to receive her when she slid her legs under the covers and lay down beside him. Head comfortably pillowed on his chest, Victoria yawned.

"Mmmm….this is the best part of the evening," she murmured, her eyes already closed, feeling his lips against her hair.

"I quite agree, ma'am, although I'll warrant at least the Nuncio might imagine meeting him would take precedence," Melbourne said, laughing at the extreme vanity of the little Italian with his retinue. "And certainly Henry would consider his own turn on the dance floor might deserve recognition as well."

"No," Victoria said firmly. "This."

She twined her fingers in the soft mat of dark hair on Melbourne's chest and sighed with contentment, before sleep took her.


	30. Chapter 30

Louis Philippe I (6 October 1773 – 26 August 1850) 

_Melbourne opened his eyes and instantly the sense of disorientation was total. Unable to move, afraid to move, he nonetheless inched his fingers out, seeking what he already sensed he would not find. The room was dark, any nascent daylight imperceptible behind drawn drapes, yet he had no need to look to know that there was no warm body curled against him, no Victoria at his side. He was alone in the big bed, not her bed – the very thought was lèse-majesté – but another, in a chamber far less ornate than the Queen's State rooms._

_He recalled his dream vividly. In it he had been reliving that pinnacle moment in which everything changed. If he could redo any one act in a long and varied lifetime, it would be that, turning her away when she came to him, heart on her sleeve, to proclaim her love. So young, so proud and with such courage – far, far more courage than he had or deserved to have spent on him. With rank cowardice masquerading as selflessness, even chivalry, he had spun a tale most surely designed to not only turn her away but humiliate her in the process. That had not been his intent, of course, but was the only predictable result in telling her he did not return her feelings. Fool, damned fool, Caro's unmistakable Devonshire House drawl had rung in his ears before the words were fully out. It had been her voice chiding him, taunting him as a coward in matters of the heart like she had so often before. But ignoring that warning, ignoring the sound of his own heart shattering, he had watched Victoria square her shoulders, lift her chin and walk away._

"Lord Melbourne," a familiar voice called, speaking in a careful low voice. "You asked me to wake you at seven."

Melbourne threw his forearm over his eyes when drapes were thrown back to let in milky early daylight. Then cautiously he blinked at the sight greeting him, and full wakefulness brought with it an unbearably sweet feeling of relief.

He pushed himself up and gratefully accepted the coffee Baines handed to him.

"I've your clothes laid out and hot water readied. Do you wish to breakfast in your chamber or join the Household?"

Parsing the tangled thoughts still sorting themselves out, Melbourne shrugged cautiously. "Where is – everyone else?"

If Baines thought the question curious, his neutral expression revealed nothing. "Her Majesty has not yet risen, sir. I believe the Duchess and Lady Portman are already in the breakfast room. The Baroness is in the nursery and did ask if you would visit before the tutor arrives at nine so that the prince and princess are not disturbed at their lessons. 'If it pleases His Lordship,' she said, of course."

Melbourne quirked a brief smile, imagining the stiff formality of Baroness Lehzen paying lip service to a nicety neither of them would credit as sincere. She ran the nursery with an iron hand, reserving all the tenderness of which she was capable for her young charges, and Melbourne gave her full credit for the devotion she showed them. The children could not be in better, more devoted hands. _My children,_ the thought formed with great deliberation, a thought that he never failed to marvel at. Children conceived in his sixth decade, a new son four years after burying his firstborn. Augustus, had he lived, would have been thirty-three years older than his brother.

"Very well, Baines. I will drink my coffee first, then look in on the Queen before anything else. Please send word through her maid."

Melbourne remembered why he slept alone. _How foolish to be so discombobulated on waking_ , he mocked himself. _Especially when one has gone to bed sober as a judge._ Sharing a bed was not the norm for persons of his age and station but it was a luxury to which he had soon become accustomed with Victoria. She clung to him in the night, her feet seeking his for warmth, her body pressed against his or his enveloping her as though neither could bear the absence of touch.

Her womanly courses, when they came, attacked with a vengeance. She was not regular, since the shooting which preceded Lily's premature birth, and as physically miserable as the advent of those days were, Melbourne was almost ashamed of the relief he felt. The physicians were unanimous in warning against another pregnancy, and although they took precautions such things were never certain. If he felt occasional longing for a child he could publicly acknowledge, he knew it was no more than male vanity.

The only time Victoria ever asked that he avoid her bed in favor of his own adjacent chamber was during that time. Melbourne was no more ignorant of such things than any man who had mother, sister, mistresses and wives, and although her indisposition was a matter of indifference to him he respected her right to request privacy when she required. Victoria had retired early the evening before, clutching a hot water bottle to her mid-section and vomiting into a chamber pot Lehzen held, waving him off when he approached. Later she sent her maid, and even the Duchess of Kent unbent enough to offer apologetic explanation that Melbourne accepted with equanimity.

He had shaved and dressed when a footman delivered Victoria's note. Melbourne read it and considered her request with some misgiving. Victoria asked that he act in her stead, attending the Privy Council meeting to be held that day and meet with Russell and Palmerston afterward. _And the boxes_ , she had added as an afterthought. Melbourne understood, perhaps better than anyone, the magnitude of what she obviously considered a simple enough request.

Melbourne knew how precarious was his acceptance as husband to the Queen. Officially detached from his lifelong Whig affiliation, the fact remained that he was former MP, Home Secretary and First Lord of the Treasury – a career politician – and a mere second generation peer, he exerted much effort to avoid even the appearance of setting himself above former colleagues and the scions of ancient noble houses who viewed the Lamb family as impertinent upstarts even before he married their Queen.

He met the Duchess of Kent, Victoria's mother, as she was emerging from Victoria's inner chamber. He looked to her questioningly and she only tilted her head in a small, coquettish smile. Melbourne allowed her to take his arm.

"I was about to go in and see how she is," he explained. The dowager Duchess gave a small shake of her head, so that her curls swayed.

"It will pass but for now, rest and laudanum and patience. And your assistance with her duties, until she is up and about once more." Victoire fastened large blue eyes on his face. "It is no small thing, that she requests you act on her behalf. Drina is very jealous of her authority."

Melbourne recalled the early attempts by Conroy and the Duchess to obtain a Regency, forging Victoria's name on a document asking him to appoint them. Water under the bridge, so long past. He remembered too the careful handling in her early days, before he himself fully comprehended what a strong-willed and capable young woman she was at eighteen, before she learned to trust him.

"The authority of the Crown is nothing I hope to usurp, Your Highness," Melbourne reminded her gently. "I will only listen on her behalf and make no decisions without her consent, certainly sign nothing in her name. If she agrees, you have my permission to sit in on any meetings I attend today. To keep an eye on me." He winked at her to take the sting from his words and detached himself from her grip.

Melbourne poured a second cup of coffee and looked over Lady Portman's shoulder at the selection of pastries.

"Take something and sit, William. Don't hover, please." He laughed at Emma Portman's sharp rebuke and took a seat beside her.

"Her little Majesty is unwell, they tell me. We can take the day off, but at such short notice what is there to do? I suppose I will take a brougham and do some shopping."

Melbourne said nothing, knowing Emma did not expect a response. He was correct.

"It gives you a reprieve, at least. I vow, I will never know how either of you can bear it. If I had to share a bedchamber with Portman night after night –" she stopped suddenly, perhaps aware that even for a friend of long standing she was veering near to the line of what was acceptable.

"Ah, but that's Portman," Melbourne said softly, in a confiding tone. Emma took his meaning at once and her color heightened.

"As you say, William, that is Portman." _Not you_ , the words lingered between them unsaid. But also, _and not me_. Her regrets were quickly covered by some pungent criticism of the newest lady-in-waiting.

The dispatch boxes were waiting – _loomed_ was the word which first came to mind – on the Queen's desk when Melbourne entered her working office. He felt at odds performing a task which should be so familiar, except then it had been his clerk which assembled those documents which would go to the palace for the sovereign's review, and later Victoria's slender hand which withdrew each. Even when passing one or the other to him for review, in his capacity as her Prime Minister, or that of her acting private secretary, it had always been the Queen's prerogative to view each first.

Only to delay the inevitable Melbourne opted to first leaf through the correspondence. Those which were strictly personal he set aside, choosing instead one bearing the seal of Louis Phillipe, King of the French. He hesitated briefly before breaking the wafer and scanning the contents.

* * *

"You are in a most fortunate position, John, and I offer my felicitations. Relations with France, so long a source of some tension during my administration, have been excellent of late, thanks to the accord between Aberdeen and Monsieur Guizot. That at least will be the source of some comfort to you as your Ministry addresses foreign affairs."

Melbourne spoke with grave sincerity and included Lord Palmerston in the remarks he addressed to Victoria's Prime Minister. John Russell, a few short weeks into his tenure, accepted Melbourne's comments at face value. Palmerston, from long acquaintance with William Lamb the man and his brother-in-law, and Melbourne, his late chief, narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He knew well that when Melbourne used such honeyed tones his very tranquility indicated some cause for concern.

Russell had accepted the news matter-of-factly that Her Majesty was indisposed and had deputized Lord Melbourne to receive him. He had come prepared to explain those dispatches which preceded his arrival and found that with Melbourne there was no need. In turn, Melbourne judiciously noted any explanatory addendums he wished to convey and assured him that Her Majesty would add her signature where required on those bishopric appointments which awaited confirmation. The rest of the interview proceeded expeditiously, Palmerston providing only the briefest overview on the state of foreign affairs. Melbourne heard him out without interruption, and if a slightly raised brow indicated some skepticism nothing was said.

"I'm sure Peel and Aberdeen comprehensively briefed you on any matters requiring immediate attention," Melbourne added. "Might I ask – not on Her Majesty's behalf, but only for my own elucidation – whether you consider anything so urgent that it might require acting without consultation with the Queen? Any policy, any pre-existing agreements, which you feel detrimental to our national interest?"

Russell looked at his Foreign Minister inquiringly, then raised his hands, palms up.

"Nothing so urgent as that, Melbourne. Might I know to what you are referring?"

Rather than answering immediately, Melbourne instead looked to Palmerston. That man's ruddy handsome countenance showed only a quizzical expression which Melbourne considered far in excess of anything remotely believable. Pantomiming, then, he thought, and wondered briefly at how readily he had allowed the boisterous, strong-willed Henry Temple to ride roughshod over him. That was then, he thought, and this is now. _Now_ I represent the Queen and not a recalcitrant ministry which seeks to defy me at every turn.

"Oh, any number of things come to mind. To give you the briefest of history lessons, which I admit is assuredly redundant, one of Aberdeen's early successes was to stabilize relations with France by undertaking to support a Spanish marriage to some neutral party, to avoid any appearance of alignment with either France or England."

Russell nodded and looked at his timepiece pointedly. Palmerston could not be accused of showing any anxiety, but something betrayed a heightened sense of alertness in his broad shoulders and the set of his impassive features.

"Yes, at the time I thought it was a rash sort of agreement and unfortunately served only to placate the French when it was entirely unnecessary. They would not have moved against us whatever we did in the matter of a Spanish marriage."

Melbourne nodded genially, giving every appearance of accepting the spurious explanation.

"That is probably why a rumor has reached the King of France. Undoubtedly based only on those old opinions, long since overruled. But there are those who do not know you well, who might give credit to the notion that you would promote an alliance between some Coburg prince who would be doubly beholden to you, and even given the appearance of an alliance between you personally and Leopold of Belgium. I am of course eager to defend your good name, and your good sense as well, because a rumor put about that you sought to overturn a previous agreement, and did so without the support of either Crown or Government, would cost you your credibility and make it impossible for you to serve as Foreign Secretary."

Melbourne's voice had grown softer, but he allowed it to take on an icy edge. He looked at Palmerston levelly, his own eyes cold. Russell looked from one man to the other.

Melbourne had risen then, dismissing both men with a show of great congeniality.

"John, Henry, I understand only too well how easily rumors like this arise. I leave it to you to quell them with a public statement of support for the agreement as it stands. We have nothing to gain and everything to lose by any disruption to the peace with France, and certainly you have enough on your plate. The difficulty in a constitutional system such as ours is that, if agreements can be negated with each change in government, what foreign power would ever trust us to make terms and uphold them? Only the Crown is a constant and for that reason alone, anything said or done in Her Majesty's name must be sacrosanct."

Melbourne showed them his most seraphic smile, even as he gestured for them to withdraw with a wave of his hand that was quite deliberately almost imperious.

* * *

Victoria sent word that the Household should dine _en famille_ since, as previously promised, those of her ladies-in-waiting who had been scheduled for duty were freed from their responsibilities. Dinner was simple by the standards of Buckingham House and Melbourne took advantage of the informality to avoid attendance, preferring instead to join his wife in her apartment.

Victoria, wearing a dark dressing gown and with a shawl over her legs, was curled up on her side watching the orange flames dancing in the fireplace when Melbourne tapped at her door. He saw, through the crack, her surprised expression before she bade him enter.

"William, since when do you knock?" She asked him, her voice soft. Melbourne studied her, seeing the heavy lids and soft smudged shadows around her eyes, her pale strained expression.

"Poor little love," he crooned, sitting on the edge of the bed, and smoothed her hair back. It was unbound and flowed down her back loosely, a look he appreciated as much as he did his right to see it.

"Does Laudanum help with the cramping?" Melbourne asked, suspecting he knew the answer. It was not a remedy he regarded without concern, recalling Caroline's dependence in her later years, but surely it had a place, judiciously used.

"Lord M!" Victoria squawked, shocked. "Gentlemen should not know about – cramping, and such."

Melbourne huffed a soft laugh. "Ma'am, I've lived amongst women my entire life. I would have to be a regular dolt to remain ignorant of such basic facts of life."

Seeing her confused embarrassment, he smiled tenderly and kissed her cheek.

"Very well, I know nothing. Better? May I sit beside you?"

"You are not – I am not well –"

"Ma'am, you are not as far as I am aware suffering any contagious ailment. If you want me to go away I will, for your sake and to preserve your misguided notions about male sensibility. If you will permit me to stay I will tell you about my day, and your Foreign Minister's shenanigans."

Victoria looked up at him sheepishly and moved aside to make room. He arranged himself beside her, pleased that when he extended his arm she obligingly nestled against him with a small sigh. It would be unthinkable, to beg her leave to sleep beside her for his own comfort and from his own place of need, but some small part of him wished he could do just that. Instead he began by showing her the letter from Louis Philippe.


	31. Chapter 31

 

> Absurd as the notion had been, once Victoria felt the cool brisk air on her face and inhaled great gulps of damp air redolent of good outdoor scent she was glad she had agreed. After confinement in her chamber besieged by a woeful combination of physical discomfort and the unpleasant awareness of her own body's least attractive functions, Victoria had thought she wanted only to be left in peace. Certainly, she did not want her husband's companionship at such a time. _What woman would?_

But William was no ordinary man. Feeling her own hand securely clasped in his large warm one, securely buttoned into one of his coats against the chill, they strode along in comfortable silence, content with each other's company. _The Queen walking about past midnight, in her nightclothes, quite unattended –_ Victoria giggled imagining scandalized whispers in a Court where any deviation from normal routine elicited much speculation.

He had sat with her and Victoria allowed him only grudgingly, preferring solitude or the company of a few chosen women. Her mother, even, could commiserate with propriety, but _Lord M?_ She wanted to remain pristine in his eyes, deserving of the most handsome, the most debonair of men.

"Look," he said suddenly, clasping her shoulders and steering her to stand in front of him to where a great roe buck and his does had just emerged from a copse of trees.

"Here in the city? Why – how do they live?"

"Quite well, I'd imagine. He is a wise old fellow – look at the rack on him! There is enough cover in the park to sustain his little harem quite well and no hunting this close to the palace, so no threat to disrupt their idyllic existence. Royal deer, ma'am, more of your dependents."

Victoria was enchanted by the small herd and she watched them in silence, awestruck at being allowed so close to wild creatures who anywhere else would have long since fled.

"I'm sure the gardeners aren't as appreciative as you are. Bulbs and young shoots are most appealing. If you wish I will warn them that you've taken a liking to what they undoubtedly view as marauders, and they are not to be harmed."

Victoria found it very pleasant to feel Melbourne's strong hands on her shoulders, to sense him standing so closely behind her that she could detect the warmth of his body even through their coats. Victoria wondered that such a simple, perfect pleasure – walking in the night, under a full harvest moon, holding her husband's hand – was so rare in the busyness and structure of their lives.

The little dog scampering about beside them began barking suddenly, a surprisingly full-throated sound to emerge from such a small animal.

"Deckel!" Victoria admonished, shushing him. Just as the valiant little dachshund was about to rout the intruders Melbourne scooped him up.

"Do you wish to go back?" His voice was low; his lips close to her ear. Victoria shook her head. "Then let's walk. Your friends down there will want their privacy and the dog would be no match for those antlers."

Melbourne laughed at her quizzical expression. "He's in rut, I'm sure. This is hunt season, timed to the natural recklessness of the bucks at such a time."

They walked on, gravel making a pleasing sound as their feet fell on the path. Melbourne had tucked the squirming sausage dog inside his coat, so that all Victoria could see was the long narrow nose and shining black button eyes.

She was conscious of her blessing once again, in having this most perfect of men at her side. He was such a _comfortable_ companion, not at all like the husbands and lovers of whom she heard her ladies speak. Devastatingly handsome, and charming, but also the kindest of men and the one who above all others always understood just what she needed, even before Victoria herself did.

"Did Lord Palmerston take offense? Will we anticipate more trouble from him?"

"Henry take offense? No, hardly, ma'am. We are friends for too long." Melbourne chuckled, and Victoria saw him smirking at the recollection. "I think I surprised him. I was never a very firm minister and gave him his way far too often. I exerted myself to rein him in when I had to, but it was easier to let the natural balance of opinions in my cabinet bring him back to some middle ground. But that was then."

"And now?" Victoria was genuinely curious what the answer might be. She had heard the criticism of Lord Melbourne's government – how could she not? – and had formed her own opinion over the years, of a man who encouraged and guided rather than led by sheer force of will. A good minister, an honorable man and more deeply introspective and far-seeing than the reactionaries around him but sometimes – and she meant it as no criticism, far from it – too intent on building consensus and maintaining equilibrium to force men to go against their own inclination.

"And now," Melbourne paused and lifted her hand to his lips, where he allowed them to linger, as if tasting her skin, savoring it. "And now, I serve you."

Victoria understood all that was meant by that simple statement, and she was overwhelmed by its magnitude. She sensed, imperfectly perhaps but informed by their long familiarity, that in her service he would be stronger and firmer, that if previously he had lacked only a cause he believed in whole-heartedly he had found that in her.

It was too much for the moment, the emotion flooding her, and as if by common agreement Melbourne lowered her hand and allowed the little dog to squirm free. When he ran on stubby little legs, so absurdly short and wrinkled under his elongated body, Victoria laughed gaily and hurried to catch up, still clasping Melbourne's hand so he must run with her.

Bred to hunt badgers, when they finally caught him once more it was because the little dog had stopped to dig frantically at the base of a tree. Victoria was breathless, hair streaming in the moonlight, and Melbourne, even with his longer legs, was equally winded. She leaned back against the tree, tossing her head impatiently when her hair tangled in the rough bark. Melbourne untangled the strands and carefully smoothed it down. When he bent his head, Victoria lifted her face to meet him.

His kiss was gentle, then firm; his lips chastely closed, then opening just enough so that Victoria could taste him. She knew these lips so well, but each kiss was different, a new discovery waiting to be made. He took his time, with no end in sight, and Victoria surrendered to the delicious sensation. Both bundled in warm coats, standing outside in the moonlight with a little dog's shovel paws depositing dirt in a mound at her feet, Victoria's whole attention was focused on the mouth pressed against hers. His breath and hers mingled, he retreated so that their lips barely brushed, then a flick of his tongue against her own brought with it a shiver of delight. She rested her hands on his forearms, and his own hands only gently held her face in alignment, so that their mouths fastened together bound them exquisitely.

How novel, and how perfect, she thought, to kiss for its own sake, without any progression. To kiss only for communion, not as a prelude to lovemaking.

She was not sure how long they stood thus, and only knew that time was irrelevant so long as she was able to continue kissing him, inhaling his essence, sustained on one shared breath.

Melbourne withdrew first, regretfully she thought. He bent and for the second time lifted the little dog. This time it was a struggle which ended only when he managed to firmly grab hold of the small hindquarters projecting from a surprisingly deep hole in the earth. He turned quickly away, and Victoria saw him wrest something from the dog's jaws and throw it into the underbrush.

"I probably shouldn't ask what that was," Victoria said, sorry to have their interlude brought to such a mundane end.

"No, Victoria, you should not. This bloodthirsty little German has made his forebears proud, suffice it to say."

They chatted idly about inconsequential matters as they made their way back to a seldom-used service entrance. Once inside Melbourne led Victoria through previously unseen service hallways, up a narrow, undecorated back stairway and down a dimly lit winding passage she surmised was reserved for servants. Once, when she looked up at him curiously, Melbourne winked and mimed a lascivious expression.

"How do you think I was able to slip in and out of your chamber unseen, in those days? Even with Albert's assistance I could not be seen to stay after hours. As it was, I'm afraid there was some speculation on the nature of my friendship with the young men in your husband's household."

It took Victoria a long moment to comprehend, and then she began laughing, holding a hand in front of her mouth to stifle the sound.

"You, Lord M? One of _them_? Oh, I had no idea. How perfectly…" she hiccupped, her eyes shining with glee. "how perfectly _disreputable_!"

Once safely inside her own bedchamber, Victoria took off her borrowed coat and rolled up her sleeves, pouring water into a basin and quickly wiping four little paws free of embedded dirt and debris. Melbourne stood by, watching her work with a mild expression and she knew he awaited her permission to stay the night in her bed.

"I can't –" Victoria hesitated and felt her cheeks warming. There were things one could not say, even to one's husband and the best, most understanding of men. Melbourne only smiled, his large heavy-lidded eyes warm and soft.

"As you wish, ma'am," he inclined his head, signifying acquiescence. "May I sit with you until you fall asleep? I promise you I will refrain from making any unwelcome advances."

"Oh, you – your advances are always welcome, Lord M, only not when I'm…"

"When you're unwell? My love, I respect your right to privacy in such matters but must demand in turn that you relinquish any notion that such a natural occurrence in any way offends my sensibilities. You are my beautiful, breathtaking, precious girl and need not be available for conjugal relations for me to derive great pleasure from simply looking at you, holding you…kissing you."

Victoria almost swooned at the look he showed her, his face so full of tender regard she need not doubt him.

"Stay then, please. Only – I don't like _myself_ at such times, it's all so unpleasant, so animalistic and…and messy – and I need to – " Victoria stuttered and stopped speaking when he laid his mouth on hers. In bare feet and night dress she felt very small and his superior height and the firmness of his chest against hers was an appealing sensation.

"You need not explain yourself, Victoria. I find nothing about you _unpleasant_ but what matters is what you feel. I will sit with you a while and then retire to my own chamber and think of the reunion we will have when you are well once more." His tone was intimate, and easy, but Victoria heard something beneath his words which gave her pause.

When she was settled in bed, the covers modestly drawn up to her waist, Victoria leaned against her husband. The little dog, now thoroughly worn out from his exertions, had burrowed underneath the quilt between them and Melbourne was absently stroking his smooth black coat.

"Are you still troubled by bad dreams?" she whispered, her own hand tracing patterns against his shirtfront so that she felt the miniscule quiver of tension which went through him, the arm resting on her back stiffening just a little.

"I am, occasionally," Melbourne said without elaboration.

"Will you tell me about them?" Victoria looked up at him, her own eyes wide and reassuring, and his gaze locked on hers.

"You will think me foolish, I daresay, for there's nothing in them to cause a grown man such disturbance of mind. I believe it's the repetition, and the peculiarly unsensational nature of those damned dreams, which plague me."

Victoria listened attentively as he described the familiar scenes he visited in his dreams, Lady Palmerston's town home, his clubs, even Windsor once or twice, but most often Brocket Hall. An infinitely familiar world and one which should hold no terror or despair, save for the recurring theme of _what might have been_. Melbourne alone, Victoria married to another and surrounded by an ever-increasing brood of children. Melbourne adrift, alone even in company. Everything which might have come to pass after he denied her that awful day, except she had not allowed it, had refused to accept his verdict, had taken their fate in her hands and wrestled it into submission.

All this he told her, speaking softly, sadly, giving Victoria full credit for having the courage to save them both. When he was done speaking he sat quietly, only his fingers moving, playing with errant strands of her hair in the way she found so infinitely soothing.

"And do we – what is it like between us, in those dreams? Are we – are we friends, at least?" Victoria willed her voice to be steady, wanting to understand for him, to comfort him as he so often comforted her.

She watched his head shake slowly. "I think not. I think we – we write sometimes, impersonally, but where you should be there is only an aching void in my heart. That's the crux of it all, the aspect which haunts me, both in that dreamworld and when I wake. If I had need of reminding, Caro's voice is so often there, telling me over and over that I brought it all on myself by my cowardice in turning you away."

"Caro?" Victoria heard her own voice sharpen. In truth she was not nearly as threatened by the specter of his dead wife as she was by his living former mistresses, but it was no pleasant thing to know that even in dreams his first love had a place.

"Caro," Melbourne repeated the name. "She was there in my head – it was her voice I heard – when you came to me. Caro had always accused me of being too tepid, of failing to take a stand and make the bold choice, the one which she needed me to make. Instead I hung back, preferring the comfort of my – my pride, I suppose, while she went off with whatever adventurer took her fancy. Always she returned, and always she blamed me, for not showing her I valued her as they did. I suppose I don't have the nature for it. I love deeply, but quietly."

He turned then, shifting to face her, and his voice became warmer and more animated.

"But you, my love! You had such courage that day, a mere girl yet you came to me and declared yourself. And even when I hurt you, when I hid behind such ridiculous falsehoods, you held your head high and you retained your spirit and determination. You were like Caro that day, so strong, such a pure shining light, which is probably why I made the association. It was her voice calling me a damned fool when I turned you away, her voice egging me on, telling me to take you in my arms and wed you before the world and damn the consequences."

Victoria looked up at him, surprised speechless by his words. "But – you did that because you thought to do otherwise would endanger the throne, would make me vulnerable to scandal and censure and even perhaps to –"

Melbourne shook his head.

"No, my love. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for thinking so highly of me, but I do not deserve it. I turned you away out of self-protection, no more. Because I couldn't bear the public ridicule I knew would follow any open declaration, the dredging up of old scandals, making mockery of my age and pretension. Of seeing you come to regret your rash choice and that light in your eyes dim. Because I was _afraid of saying yes_. And worst of all my errors, instead of telling you the truth and allowing you to decide, I took it upon myself to decide for you and in doing so wounded you deeply, for the sake of my pride. That is the bitter truth of which those dreams remind me, and the penalty I would have paid – we both would have paid – for my cowardice, if you had not found another way."

Victoria allowed his words to sink in, to turn them over and over in her mind, examine them and her own heart and decide whether they made a difference. The answer, unequivocally, was _no_ , they did not. He loved her, he had always loved her, and for whatever reason – what he perceived as her best interests or his own – he had denied it, and then he had admitted it and here they were. There was no alternative, no possibility that things might have gone awry, just as there was no other world, only this. And here, now, she was the wife of this good man, he had given her children and been content to stay in the shadows until Albert's untimely death freed her to marry and then he had stepped forward and wed her, exposing himself to all those ugly slanders he had so feared.

Victoria raised herself to her knees and turned his face to hers with one hand, resting the other on his shoulder.

"I love you, William Lamb. I loved you since the first moment you knelt before me and kissed my hand. Did you love me, when I came to you that day? Did you know you loved me then?"

"Yes," Melbourne said softly, grasping her wrist and kissing it where the pulse beat against her fair skin.

"Yes, I loved you and only you, and before I met you I loved the _idea_ of you. I searched and searched and when I'd nearly given up all hope, I found you."

"Then that's all that matters. I don't think –" Victoria sat back on her haunches, scrunching her brows together, chasing the elusive thought.

"I don't think anyone ever does anything significant for only one reason. It's understandable you were afraid of saying yes. You were – we both know what was said in the clubs, that you were a seducer and I was a naïve young girl – you were rightly concerned what would be said about both of us, and the effect of such a sensational scandal. When we did finally wed, the people accepted you, welcomed you, because I was a very young widow and Albert had died violently and you were a hero for stepping in. It would not have been the same if you had married me when I was nineteen and a virgin. So, you were right to say no then, perhaps – we'll never know – and between us we gave Albert more happiness in a few short years than he would have otherwise known in a lifetime. And here we are, just as we should be, as we were always meant to be."

Victoria sat back, breathless from her impassioned soliloquy, and was immeasurably relieved when Melbourne's serious expression changed to a playful smile. Nothing could conceal the light burning in those beautiful eyes, but his voice was teasing.

"Karma," he said softly. "That is one word for what you describe. Or Fate, if you prefer. Or predestination, even. The idea that there is a plan for all of us, whether devised by a Christian God or some more mysterious universal design. It all means essentially the same thing, that we were meant to be together and no matter how big a fool I was, we were led inexorably to this place in each other's lives."

"Karma," Victoria repeated. She shrugged, accepting it as she did all of Lord M's esoteric knowledge. His hand cupped her cheek almost reverently, and once again his eyes became serious.

"Whatever we call it, I waited an entire lifetime for you – quite a long life, before you came along – and if I could change any part of it, other than my failure to meet your courage with my own that day, and spare you the hurt I inflicted, it would only be that you might have been born sooner, or me later, so we would have more years to share."

Victoria frowned then, shaking her head so that her hair flew about. She threw herself onto his chest and pulled his arms around her.

"Don't talk about time, William. I refuse to listen. You are mine, and we will be together forever."

In her quick movement, Victoria had forgotten the dog between them, hidden under the covers. She and Melbourne were both startled by the speed with which he emerged and administered a sharp nip on the Queen's arm. Victoria yelped, then laughed, kissing the long narrow muzzle.

"Well, ma'am, shall I stay, or shall I go and leave you to this impertinent beast?" Melbourne asked. Victoria removed Deckel and the soft rag doll he clutched in his paws to a safe distance so that nothing lay between them and then she arranged herself comfortably against her husband's chest and pulled his protective arms securely about her.

"Kiss me," she said, turning her face up to his.

 


End file.
